The Legendary Arlen Shadowcloak
by MaceWindovahkiin117
Summary: And the Scrolls have foretold, of black wings in the cold, that when brothers wage war come unfurled! But when Dragon Blood calls, and the Night Mother speaks, before Shadowcloak's wrath, Alduin's future is bleak.
1. Chapter 1

As you all know, I'm pretty much obsessed with Skyrim. In two of my stories, Daniel and Arlen and Ragnar the Red, I have the Dragonborn, Arlen. Here's his story.

-/\\-

Arlen sprinted through the trees, heading back toward the river he had passed over just over an hour earlier. The trolls crashed through the branches behind him, attracting attention for leagues around. Arlen continued to run through the trees, noticing a slight incline. He was unsure how long the incline was, but he knew it was a bluff.

Arlen had passed over this river only an hour earlier, looking to travel east into Morrowind. He had sold much of his stock in Windhelm, and intended to empty his cart to the Dark Elves. After he had crossed a river, he had been ambushed by unnaturally fast trolls. He had abandoned his cart, snatched a particularly large coin purse, and ran.

The bluff ended without warning. Time seemed to slow, and Arlen realized he was falling only two meters away from a small wooden bridge. He cursed his luck, clutched his coin purse, and spread his arms and legs. Death reached from the deep, fast-moving curve in the river, and Arlen had no choice but to fall to Him.

There was a splash of ice-cold water, and Arlen bobbed to the surface of the river. He was swept along at high speeds, until the river shallowed out and he slowed. As a merchant, he had to know where he was. This was Darkwater Crossing. He climbed out of the river, realizing for the first time that he hadn't died, and looked back and forth. There was a mill dipped into the water at the crossing, used most likely for wood or grain. The road led either way, past the mill, and Arlen set off further into Skyrim. He didn't have any supplies for travel, and would be hard-pressed reaching Windhelm, let alone Morrowind or his cart before brigands found it.

Arlen looked to his coin purse, and found that it had been torn in the river. There was a mere three coins in it. Arlen cursed again, and continued down the road. He stepped on something sharp, and turned to recover a boot he'd been unaware of losing. It bobbed in Darkwater Crossing, slowly drifting toward the waterwheel. Arlen jogged/hopped back to the water, catching the boot only a meter away from the wheel. As he attempted to put on the boot, a company of Stormcloaks marched past. They were all dressed in scale mail and blue cuirasses, with fur boots and gauntlets. At their head was Ulfric Stormcloak, dressed in armor of longer scales. Over this was a gray pelt. He had dirty blonde hair and a beard. He looked for all the world like a noble, a hero, a king. Arlen stood, began to walk behind the men. Suddenly, Imperials in brown hardened leather armor swarmed from the trees, killing and knocking unconscious. Ulfric was knocked unconscious and dragged away, and Arlen began to back up. Men were killed left and right, until only five remained. They formed a tight circle, but a man on a dark horse galloped into them. They scattered, and the man was thrown from the horse. The Imperials surged forward, hitting men over the head, dragging them away toward Ulfric. Arlen turned to run, and a rock scratched the side of his face. He tried to keep running, regardless of the pain. There was a sharp crack, a pain in the back of his head, and his vision faded to black. He heard men grunting, felt himself being lifted, thrown into a wagon, his hands tied, and someone hit him again for good measure.

/\

Arlen felt a slight heat on his face, but it was nearly cancelled out by the cool breeze that blew by. He started to open his eyes, but the sun forced him to do so slowly. He had a splitting headache, and the light didn't help. Finally, he managed to observe his surroundings with minimal pain. He was on a wagon, being rolled down a mountain road behind a horse. There was an Imperial driving the carriage. A brown-haired Nord on horseback rode behind them. Another wagon was ahead, and in front of that was another man on horseback. That one Arlen recognized as General Tullius, the Military Governor of the Imperials. He ruled more than the Empress in the Blue Palace in Solitude. Pine trees, flowers and shrubs flanked the road, with steep icy cliffs beyond those.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake," a voice sounded near Arlen. He looked up, and found a blonde Stormcloak across from him in the carriage. To his right was Ulfric, and across from Ulfric was the man on horseback that had galloped through the stalemate at Darkwater Crossing. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked straight into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there." Arlen understood now.

"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy." The man did look like a thief. He had dark greasy hair, sideburns, and shifty eyes. "If they hadn't been looking for you, I'd have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." Hammerfell was the homeland of the dark-skinned Redguards, the most naturally talented warriors in Tamriel, and was the country across the south-western border of Skyrim. They had been captured in Eastmarch, which was the north-eastern hold. Hammerfell was a long way from Darkwater Crossing. "You there," the thief addressed Arlen, "you and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"Actually," Arlen corrected, "I am a Stormcloak. Not actively, of course, but I am the provider of their supplies. The next time you say something against the source of my money, something bad will happen to you."

Arlen smiled. _That shut him up._

/Hadvar\

Hadvar observed the short argument between the prisoners ahead of him. The first time the black-eyed man had spoken, everyone had gone quiet. That was either power or a silver tongue. Hadvar didn't like it either way. When the train reached Helgen, there was a bit of an exchange with Tullius and a sentry. They rode into town, turned a corner, and stopped near the chopping block. The prisoners were unloaded, and Hadvar dismounted. A man gave him a list of names, and he joined a female Captain in front of the second cart.

"Step toward the block when we call your name," the Captain called. "One at a time!" Hadvar waited for a comment to end, then began his list.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The Jarl stepped forward, then turned and walked toward the block. Another comment, and Hadvar continued. "Ralof of Riverwood." The talkative one walked toward the block. "Lokir of Rorikstead." A man in rags stepped forward, yelled, and ran. Hadvar never listened during these. It would make him feel something, and he couldn't afford that. Finally, the Captain yelled to the small crowd of Stormcloaks.

"Anyone else feel like running?"

Hadvar looked up, and addressed the black-eyed man. "Wait, you there. Step forward." The man walked forward. He was dressed in rags as well, courtesy of the Imperials. He was a Nord, that was obvious. He had shoulder-length black hair with a braid. His eyes were black; pupils, irises, whites and all. He had a rough, trimmed beard and a nose that made Hadvar jealous. He was not scared, nor was he content. He looked tense, as though he were about to escape.

"Who are you?" Hadvar asked. It wasn't just to check the list, but because Hadvar genuinely wanted to know who could have such a powerful presence.

"Arlen."

The one-word response seemed to frustrate the Captain next to Hadvar.

"Any surname, _Arlen_?" She said the name as though it were and insult.

"If you want," Arlen said, turning to her with a bored gaze, "you can call me Arlen Shadowcloak. Although, it might be in your best interest to call me 'sir.'"

/Arlen\

Arlen had just plucked the surname from thin air. His real surname was Goldentongue, for how easily he could seemingly turn words into profit. He had then said the 'sir' bit, and hoped they wouldn't torture him before death. They didn't, but both blanched. He tried not to smile, but mentally thanked his intimidating black eyes. They sent him toward the block.

"Ulfric Stormcloak." Tullius approached the Jarl of Windhelm. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Ulfric grunted through a gag, but Tullius didn't stop. "You started this war," he said, his voice rising, "plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!" A roar echoed through the mountains, accentuating the words.

"What was that?" Someone asked.

"It's nothing, carry on." Tullius walked away from Ulfric.

"Yes, General Tullius! Give them their last rites," the Imperial Captain said to a priestess.

She nodded. "As we commend your souls to Atherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved-"

"Oh for the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with." A red-haired man invoked the Nord God who had ascended from mortality to immortality.

"As you wish," the priestess said, annoyed. The Captain bent the man over the block.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you-" The black-clad headsman killed him.

"Next," the Captain said, "Arlen Shadowcloak!" The roar echoed again, louder this time.

"There it is again," the Imperial with the list said. "Did you hear that?"

"I said, next prisoner!"

"To the block, Arlen." Once again the one with the list. He moved toward the block. "Nice and easy." Arlen approached the block as well, ending up opposite the Imperial.

Arlen was about to die anyway, so he figured he would have the last word. He looked the Imperial in the eye, opened his mouth, and spoke. "When I get loose, you die first." The Captain pushed Arlen onto the block. Just before the headsman could kill him, though, a dragon landed on a nearby tower.

"Dragon!" someone shouted. There was an otherworldly echo, and Arlen was thrown from the block.

"Guards!" Tullius shouted. "Get the townspeople to safety!"

"Hey, Arlen!" the blonde man who had sat opposite Arlen in the cart shouted. "Get up! Come on! The Gods won't give us another chance!"

Arlen stood, but didn't follow the blonde man. He simply ran past into a tower and up a staircase three steps at a time. At the top of the first flight, there were two burnt corpses, a lot of rubble, and a hole in the wall. Outside, there was an inn with a hole in the roof. Arlen jumped through it, dropped to the ground, and ran out into a street. He sprinted across a wooden walkway, through a burning house, and out of Helgen through a gate. He continued down the path, broke his bonds with some effort, and hid under a half-fallen tree. There he waited. An Imperial soldier landed next to him, having been thrown all the way from town. Houses burned. Finally, the dragon flew away. Arlen looted the Imperial for armor and weapons, taking a dagger, a bow, and a quiver of arrows in addition to the light armor.

"From this moment forward," Arlen swore to himself, "I will be Arlen Shadowcloak. I will fight from this day until my last, and I will be the most powerful man in Tamriel!"

/Adrianne\

Adrianne Avenicci looked up as the stranger passed. She was unsure why, for she never looked up from hot steel over an anvil. This time, though, she was forced to. She realized it was night time, although Warmaiden's should have been closed at 8. The figure strolled through the street, hidden under shadow of hood, house, and cloud. He was dressed entirely in studded boiled leather, except for his hood. His hood was a simple leather piece that had been sewed into a hood shape and attached to the top of his cuirass. A steel dagger hung from his left hip, and a few orange-brown-fletched steel arrows peeked over his shoulder. In his left hand he held a recurve hunting bow, and in his right several brace of rabbits. Over his shoulder, balanced with great strength and much finesse, was a dead, hog-tied elk.

Adrianne stared with awe at the man, and her stomach sank into her boots when he approached.

When the man reached Adrianne, he spoke only one word. "Merchant."

It wasn't a question, nor a request. Not a command, not a statement. It was a single word that told Adrianne, 'tell me where I can sell this game, and nothing bad will happen.' At least, that's how she viewed it. She pointed with shaky finger at the _Drunken Huntsman,_ a shop for all things hunting, including bows, arrows, meat, pelts, clothes, and horns.

"Elrindir will still be there, but it'll be locked. It doesn't open again until 8."

The stranger looked not at the position of the moon, any water clock, sun dial, nothing to tell the time. He simply said, sort of sarcastically, "It's already 9:41. He's nearly two hours late."

"I meant the morning," Adrianne muttered at the stranger's retreating back. When he reached the shop, he tried the handle. The door, as Adrianne said, was locked. So he gathered his strength and kicked it in. There was a yelp from the inside. Adrianne quickly dropped her project and ran toward her house.

/Elrindir\

Elrindir, the manager and owner of the _Drunken Huntsman,_ looked up as the door was tried. He drew breath to yell, "closed," but the door suddenly exploded inward, scattering wood shards, twisting the hinges, and letting in moonlight. A strange figure walked in, and Elrindir never noticed the rabbits or the elk, only thought they were living appendages on the man. When he walked into the light, though, the man appeared normal enough. Just a very dark-looking hunter. Elrindir tried to tell him, "closed," again, but all that came out was a yelp. Only then did he realize that he was afraid of this man.

The man walked forward. "How much?" And he dropped the rabbits and elk onto a counter.

"Thirteen hundred septims!" Elrindir said with some effort. He did not want this man to think he was being cheated.

Suddenly, everything seemed to brighten. Elrindir's fear lessened, and he wondered what had caused it. Then he realized, the stranger had lifted his head and revealed his face. He seemed much less like a mysterious and frightening figure now, and more like a person. He had full black eyes, but that wasn't as rare in Skyrim as it was in the rest of Tamriel. He was a Nord, which reassured Elrindir even more.

"Really?" the suddenly more friendly stranger asked. "I was thinking more like eight hundred. Didn't think rabbit and elk were _that_ valuable."

"Eight hundred's good..." Elrindir still didn't want to be killed by an underpaid man.

"Well then, let's get on with it." The stranger picked up a coin purse next to Elrindir's left hand and shook it. "Sounds like two and a half hundred. Tell you what, two more of those and we'll call it square." Elrindir agreed, gave him two more purses, and shuffled into a back room.

"Close the door as you-" The door thumped closed, then creaked back open a few centimeters. A coin purse came back through the hole where the handle used to be.

"That should cover the door," a voice called from the other side.

/Arlen\

Arlen Goldentongue, the merchant, thought to himself. _750 gold for just an elk and six rabbits!_ But Arlen Shadowcloak, the mysterious hooded adventurer, cut in.

 _That elf was a cheat! He cheated me out of five hundred gold coins!_

Goldentongue and Shadowcloak argued for several minutes, and Arlen froze in the middle of the street.

 _I need to pay for the door._

 _Elrindir can pay for it!_

 _There's no excuse for destruction._

 _I wasn't destroying it! The smith said 8, it was 9:42!_

 _She meant the morning and I know it!_

In the end, Arlen decided he would stick with his Goldentongue personality for this situation. He tossed one of the purses through the hole in the door and shouted. "That should cover the door!"

/Farnell\

"Night duty again..." Farnell grumbled to himself. He was a Whiterun city guard, and had received night patrol six times in a row. He donned his scale mail, yellow surcoat, fur boots and pointed full-face helmet. He picked up his shield. It hadn't been used much, and the yellow paint and brown stylized horse head were nearly flawless. He then picked up his short Imperial sword and opened the door.

He wished he hadn't.

Outside stood a strange figure, dressed entirely in brown leather. There was a bow in his left hand, a dagger on his waist, and a quiver of arrows on his back. The figure seemed to be looking directly at Farnell, and nobody else was around. Suddenly galvanized into action, Farnell realized he wasn't afraid of this figure and drew his sword. The figure, Farnell now realized, hadn't seen him in the doorway. He put away his bow and turned to walk down the street. Farnell couldn't have someone like that in Whiterun, so he set off in pursuit. About ten meters away, Farnell stopped. The figure had turned about, and had his dagger in his hand.

Farnell ran forward, and swung his sword. It missed, and a slash appeared across his thigh. The figure's dagger buried itself in Farnell's shield, and pushed him back a meter. The dagger came out of the shield, and Farnell barely deflected the next stroke. The next attack was from Farnell, but it was redirected into the ground. Farnell didn't even try this time. The dagger slid in between his ribs. In spite of the warm blood that poured down his side, all the city guard felt was cold.

/Arlen\

Arlen Goldentongue was appalled. Arlen Shadowcloak was satisfied. Arlen argued with himself over whether he still wanted to be Arlen Shadowcloak, a powerful man who could kill city guards, and he froze again. The two personalities clashed, and Arlen went over the pros and cons of each. In the end, he decided once again.

 _I am Arlen Shadowcloak._

Arlen sheathed his body dagger and moved toward the dead guard. Nobody was awake or out at this hour, but it would not do for the body to be seen in the morning. He dragged the body off the road into some shrubbery. He nearly hurled, but stopped himself just in time.

 _I am Arlen Shadowcloak._

It barely helped. He still felt like the innocent merchant Arlen Goldentongue. But he couldn't be. He needed to be the killer.

 _I am Arlen Shadowcloak._

Arlen reached into the guard's coin purse and emptied it into his. Although he had tried to be Shadowcloak before, that moment tipped the scales. Now, he didn't think it to reassure himself. He only stated a fact.

 _I am Arlen Shadowcloak._

Nothing could stand in his way now. Arlen Shadowcloak would speak to Jarl Balgruuf, as he figured he should do, and then he would destroy the dragon and its kin.


	2. Chapter 2

As you noticed in the other document, I use slashes to signify time lapses and character perspective changes. Just want to eliminate confusion.

Also, in case you didn't realize by the last chapter, spoiler alert. Most of you reading this will have played Skyrim through, so I won't explain in too great detail on some of the quests Arlen is on, because you know how they go. Just the most important ones will be described in detail.

Those who are not applicable to the previous paragraph, I will sum it up for you. Arlen has just visited Bleak Falls Barrow, the old Nordic ruin above Riverwood, fought through several passages of Draugr and bandits, and retrieved the Dragonstone for the Jarl of Whiterun and his Court Wizard, Farengar. This has helped Farengar to study the dragons. Afterward, Arlen was called upon to fight a dragon that had attacked the Western Watchtower of Whiterun.

Later, he goes through Ustengrav, also fighting Draugr and skeletons, to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, but instead finds a note from the Blade Delphine to ask for the attic room in the Sleeping Giant Inn (even though the inn has no attic, but instead a vaulted and ventilated ceiling for the large fire in the center of the main room... lol)

One more thing. There's a bit of a plot twist at the end, just something I think would be interesting in the game itself.

-/\\-

The dragon landed, and it was only then that Arlen realized it wasn't the same one that had attacked Helgen. That one had been black and had had many horns and spikes. It had altogether looked more dangerous. This one was a light gray color, with some dark grey on its underside. It had spines, but they weren't as jagged or sharp-looking as the black dragon's. Another major difference was the lack of rocks falling from the sky. The other dragon had had huge rocks and fire hailing down on Helgen, while this one only breathed fire every once in a while.

Arlen charged forward, lifting his Orcish dagger. He had found it in a bandit camp, and had been very surprised when the jagged, low-quality appearance had actually held greater promise than the straight, sharp steel blade Arlen had had before. He reached the dragon, brought the dagger down, and dodged a bite. The dragon started to take off, but Irileth, Jarl Balgruuf's housecarl, hit it with a lightning bolt. It fell back to the ground again, and tried to bite Arlen. He didn't let it. As the gaping maw came closer, Arlen slashed at it with his dagger. It created a long, jagged cut across the dragon's face. Arlen then leaped onto the dragon's head, managing barely to keep his feet as it bucked, and stabbed it through the eye.

Arlen heard some sort of echo in his mind. "Dovahkiin! No!" And then the dragon collapsed. Arlen jumped to the ground, and stepped back as the dragon lit on fire. Ash and burnt flesh floated on the wind, and soon the dragon was but its skeleton. Some sort of strange energy enveloped Arlen, and he felt immense power course through him. An image flashed through his mind of a word, Fus, Force, that he had seen in glowing runes on a wall in Bleak Falls Barrow.

"FUS!" the word sprang to his lips, and a ring of blue energy was hurled forward. It made a city guard stagger, and sent the dragon skeleton back a meter. "I should get back to the Jarl." A guard approached before he could leave.

"I don't believe it," the guard said, "you're... Dragonborn."

"Dragonborn?" Arlen was confused. "What do you mean?"

"A man gifted with the ability to kill dragons and consume their souls. That's what happened, right? It has to be."

"Yes, I think you're right," Arlen said, now interested. "As I say, I should get back to Balgru- the Jarl." Arlen turned and jogged back toward Whiterun.

/Arngeir\

An echo. Faint, but there. A word had been learned. Someone with a strong Thu'um had learned a simple word, Force. Arngeir wondered at it for a moment, then dismissed it. Could have been anyone.

/\

Another echo. This time, it was great in Arngeir's mind. He, Borri, Einarth and Wulfgar were meditating near the storm-gate that led to the peak of the Throat of the World. The wind and snow whistled by loudly, but still the echo made all four Graybeards stir. They stood. A dragon. They had heard the great Alduin speak the words to his infamous Meteor Storm Shout, to Unrelenting Force, and to Fire Breath. The return of the dragons was here, though none of the Graybeards knew how or why. They speculated, but they didn't know for certain. This wasn't the same dragon, but rather a minor lieutenant of the World-Eater. Murmulnir. The Graybeards were certainly worried, for dragons could not be killed by any without the presence of a Dovahkiin, one who shared in the Dragon Blood. The return of the dragons did not necessarily mean the return of a Dragon _born,_ and the Graybeards knew that the end times had begun.

The Graybeards walked to the top of a tower, which they used to meditate and communicate with the world below. When they reached the top, another echo came to them. This one physically made them stagger.

The word earlier learned had been spoken. This time, there was no doubt. This person was not the Graybeards' former student, Ulfric Stomrcloak, nor any random by-chance learner of the Thu'um. This was someone special.

Another word was spoken somewhere below. This was not in the ancient Dragon language, but in the basic language of Tamriel. Yet still it reached to the Graybeards' ears: "Dragonborn." Understanding dawned. The end times could be prevented, or at least delayed, after all. The Dragonborn was here, and it was his destiny to defeat Alduin. As one, the Graybeards called for the Dragonborn, beckoning him to High Hrothgar where they could assist him in this path.

"DOVAHKIIN!" The single word bounced into every nook and cranny in Tamriel, and perhaps most of Nirn. The elevation of High Hrothgar would mean that perhaps the word had reached Mundus, high above atmosphere. The word reverberated back to them, but not in full power. They knew what this meant.

The Dragonborn had received their summons.

/Arlen\

Arlen had long abandoned his Jarl's assistant status. After that meeting, he was once again Arlen Shadowcloak, but not the guard-killer or the assassin, but the Dragonborn. Jarl Balgruuf had insisted that he take on a housecarl, and Lydia now followed him to the base of The Throat of the World. The Throat of the World was the tallest mountain in Tamriel, including the volcano Red Mountain in Morrowind. It was near the peak, as Balgruuf had told him, that the famous Graybeards lived and trained those gifted in the Way of the Voice. When Arlen and Lydia reached the base of the mountain, Arlen reached back with open upturned hand. Into it was put a pick, modified by Adrianne Avenicci to assist Arlen when climbing.

Lydia had a similar one, and they simultaneously began climbing. Balgruuf had suggested they circumvent the mountain and take the staircase from Ivarstead, but Arlen was not keen on taking 7,000 stairs to a castle he could see from Dragonsreach.

And so they climbed.

Below, they heard a scream. When Arlen looked down, he saw a woman being chased by a bear. As Arlen Shadowcloak, which he no longer had to consciously try to be, he didn't care.

And so they climbed.

After about an hour of careful climbing, they reached a small stone shelf. On it, to Arlen's annoyance, were two Ice Wolves, the infamous white-furred wolves whose teeth were frosted over and whose hide was tougher than most bears'. Arlen stabbed one through the mouth, another through the ear. Behind them was a dead elf, who they had obviously killed based on the bite- and claw-marks. He wore gold Elven armor, and Arlen was immediately interested. Elven armor was strong, but made of very lightweight materials, such as Moonstone and Quicksilver. It would allow Arlen to move and sneak with his normal fluidity, while also protecting him much more than the leather armor.

The armor fit perfectly. There was a large bloodstain originating from the left shoulder, and it gave Arlen a quite fierce look. The armor looked to be made entirely of long, golden leaves, and truly encompassed the wild nature of the Wood Elves, while disregarding the magical nature of the High Elves and the stealthy nature of the Dark Elves. Although, now that Arlen thought about it, he realized that the armor didn't shine much, but was rather quite dull and had a greenish sheen to it. That would help him sneak a lot better in the wild.

"Still here." Lydia said suddenly. Arlen didn't register that it was her, and his reflexes took over. He turned, kicked, and drew his dagger. Lydia staggered toward the edge of the stone shelf, trying desperately to slow down. "I'm on your side!" she shouted, still slipping over ice toward the deadly fall. Arlen lunged forward to catch her, but she slipped on a final patch of ice and plunged, helpless, to the sharp rocks far below. Arlen was now the one slipping. As he slid past at relatively high speed, he swept up Lydia's climbing pick and buried it in a small nook in the shelf. The pick scraped along the crack in the stone with a terrible screeching sound, but Arlen eventually slowed to a stop. He looked behind him and found that he was a mere meter from the edge. He swiftly returned to his feet, just in time to see his dagger fly over the edge, as if in pursuit of Lydia. He grumbled, then dropped the scabbard after it. Luckily for him, the elf also had an Elven dagger, which was also made of the strong, lightweight Moonstone and Quicksilver. It looked like a blade protruding from an intricate formation of long, golden leaves. It was single-edged, and the edge without the blade was of course designed to look like leaves. There was also a bow and arrows, and Arlen took those, too. Both would do Arlen well.

When he resumed climbing, Arlen realized he was quite nearly halfway to High Hrothgar. He climbed for another hour, faster this time, for he didn't have to worry about Lydia. Several times he reached a small shelf or ledge he could sit on and catch his breath for a few seconds, then it was back to climbing. After the hour was up, Arlen crabbed sideways to a shelf to rest for the night. He hadn't realized, but since the early morning fight with the dragon, it had been nearly eighteen hours and the sun was setting again. Arlen rolled into a tight ball and slept.

/\

Arlen woke up. Everything was normal, nothing was attacking. He stood, looked out over the dark expanse, and decided to eat. He opened his Bag of Collecting, which was a sack that let him carry anything, taking only half its weight and none of its volume. He pulled out a half-loaf of bread, a bottle of honey-apple mead, and a sealed bowl of rabbit stew. He had been born with magical ability, but had only taken time to learn a few basic spells, such as Flames, Frost, and Sparks. He also knew Healing, of course, which would patch his wounds and speed up their internal healing process. He had recently learned the more complicated Candlelight spell, and he used it now. A ball of light floated near him, and illuminated the area as he heated his food with Flames. It was quite normal to wake up in the middle of the night, and made one less tired in the morning. Arlen quickly ate his meal, then sipped his heated mead. When he finished it, had threw the bottle at the rock face a few meters away, feeling very satisfied when the bottle shattered. He lay back down, but didn't curl up this time. The cold hadn't been a big deal before, as he was a Nord, but after the hot meal he was very comfortable.

/\

Arlen woke up again, seeing the light of the early morning sun through his closed eyelids. He immediately started climbing again, using both his and Lydia's picks in order to move faster. After only half an hour, he came upon High Hrothgar. It was a dark castle, as icy and cracked as the rock face preceding it, and Arlen had climbed all the way to the top of the structure before he realized it wasn't the rock face anymore. He climbed out over the roof, looking back and forth. The famous 7,000 steps stretched around a bend to his right, and a few fires flickered to the left. There was a gate leading nowhere, with no apparent purpose, and a few short pillars. There was a dark tower near a gateway, which had a storm raging in it. Arlen found a sort of skylight leading into the monastery, a raised piece of the ceiling that allowed light in but not snow. He slid into the slit, fell a dozen meters, and landed, kneeling, in the center of a large room. Behind him was a pillar, before him stairs and the doors to the courtyard. There were several fires and torches that made the building warm, the largest one raised to the level of the doors.

Surrounding Arlen, as if they already knew he was coming, were four gray-robed men with, of course, gray beards hanging forth from deep cowls.

"So... A Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age," one said. It was a strange comment, but Arlen still responded.

"I am answering your summons. Assuming you are the Graybeards?"

"Of course. I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Graybeards. I will be your main tutor in the Way of the Voice, assuming you are the Dragonborn?"

"Yes..."

"Then show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your voice."

"FUS!" Arlen didn't hesitate. Arngeir staggered, but stood without violence.

"Good. Very good. Tell me: why have you come here?"

Arlen was caught off-guard, but it wouldn't be the first time. "To learn to use this ability..." he was about to say 'to vanquish those who stand between me and my goal,' but he had a feeling the Graybeards wouldn't like that. "...responsibly and effectively." It seemed more acceptable.

"That's not it. You wish to destroy any who stand in your path." Arngeir accused.

"I-" Arlen was about to protest, but realized Arngeir wasn't judging, rather observing. "Yes."

"As I suspected."

Arngeir proceeded to explain how to learn a Shout, then taught Arlen Ro, the second word in Unrelenting Force. They continued into the courtyard, taught him Wuld, a word in Whirlwind Sprint, and sent him off, in complete confusion, to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller.

/Delphine\

Delphine stabbed the Draugr, ran from the reanimated skeleton, and barely managed to slide under the three gates as they closed. The first one only stayed open because of the skeleton rib cage she had placed there, and the second two because of her quick thinking and quicker feet. She navigated over some fire traps in the floor, climbed past some Frostbite Spiders, and cut through some thick webs of theirs. They immediately replaced said webs, which was an amazing feat. Finally, she reached the Chamber of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Strange statues rose out of water on either side of the path. The Horn was clear on its pedestal, and Delphine took it, replaced it with her note, killed two guardian Draugr, and ran out the back way, not even stopping when her coin purse snagged and tore.

Several hours later, Delphine ran into her inn in Riverwood, and made her way through the secret door and to her equipment room. There, she changed back into her innocent innkeeper clothes, locked her hidden door, and reemerged into the main room of the inn.

The door opened. Delphine resisted the urge to look up from her sweeping, but soon realized that she didn't need to. The bard, Sven, went quiet, and her barkeep didn't greet as he usually did. This was the Dragonborn alright.

Finally, the barkeep came to his senses. "We got drinks and rooms. Food, too. I cook. The rooms you'll have to see Delphine about."

Delphine feigned ignorance again, until a smooth Nord voice sounded behind her. "I'm guessing you're Delphine?" She turned toward the voice, and saw who she was looking for. He was dressed in the gold Elven armor, had an Elven dagger on his waist and an Elven bow on his back. A black trimmed beard stretched across his face, but none of these were the most striking part of the figure. For his eyes were black, pupils, irises, whites and all. And, despite how smooth his voice was, it was also dripping with venom, shadow and death. Delphine was an expert swordswoman, but she wasn't sure she could beat this one if he decided to attack.

"Yes," Delphine finally found her voice, and it was more confident than she felt.

"Could I perhaps rent," the man said, looking with slight amusement at the lack of attic, "the attic room?"

There was no doubt now. The Dragonborn was here.

/Arlen\

"You don't want to go up there! A dragon: it's attacking!" The woman was quite frightened. Arlen stopped her.

"Dragon?" Arlen asked, "Where?"

The woman didn't like being stopped, and so replied instantly. "It flew over town and landed on the old burial mound. I don't know what it's doing up there, but I'm not waiting around to find out!" The woman slipped from Arlen's grasp and ran off into the snowy pine forest.

"Well?" Delphine arrived, only minutes after Arlen had.

"You were right," Arlen told her. "There's a dragon burial mound here. But," Arlen turned to her now, "the dragon hasn't been revived yet. It seems a third-party dragon showed up and flew to the mound." With that, Arlen took off up the hill toward a large black shape. As they neared, they could hear a thundering voice.

"Sahloknir! Ziil gro dovah ulse! Slen tiid vo!" Arlen and Delphine reached the burial mound, and Arlen saw a great black dragon flying over it. It was the one that had attacked Helgen. They hid behind a rock, and observed with great interest and horror as a skeletal dragon climbed from the now-ruined burial mound. Flesh seemed to gather to him from nowhere, and he was soon a fully formed dragon.

"Alduin, thuri!" the new dragon said, "Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?"

The great dragon replied with more dragon language, gibberish to Delphine and Arlen. "Geh, Sahlokniir, kaali mir."

"Ful, losei Dovahkiin. Zu'u koraal nid nol dov do hi." Arlen heard Dovahkiin and knew he was being addressed by the large black dragon above. "You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah. Sahloknir, krii daar joorre."

The new gray dragon that the black one had revived came forth and spat fire at Arlen and Delphine. Arlen dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the fire. The dragon had already taken off, though, and wouldn't be easy to hit with a bow. Delphine managed it, though, and pierced the dragon's wing. It tumbled to the ground, carving a huge runnel in the earth. Arlen ran over to the dragon, slashed its snout, dodged some fire, cut off part of its tail, and finally stabbed it between two scales into its brain. He found that Delphine had also been circling, and she ran back around to Arlen.

"I guess I owe you some answers, don't I?"

/Alduin\

Alduin circled over the battle, watching how the false Dragonborn might deal with his lieutenant Sahloknir. The answer, much to Alduin's disappointment, was quite well. The Dragonborn's friend had shot Sahloknir out of the sky, and both had barraged the dragon with blades, until the Dragonborn finally stabbed Sahloknir with his dagger, straight through to the brain. Alduin roared with rage, but decided not to engage. He flew off into the mountains, swearing to himself that this false Dragonborn would die by his claw.

/Arlen\

"It will take me a while to come up with a plan. You'll need to find something else to occupy your time. Meet me in Riverwood in a week." With that, Delphine left.

Arlen walked into the Braidwood Inn of Kynesgrove, whose inhabitants had returned. He approached the innkeeper, who was sweeping the floor near the fire.

"So," Arlen said casually.

The innkeeper didn't look up. "So."

"Not a good day for dragons, is it?"

Still no physical response. "No. Never is."

"I heard there's an innkeeper from some central-Skyrim village whose got a violent past."

"Hm. Haven't we all." The innkeeper's bored voice started to annoy Arlen.

"I also heard there's some guy in Windhelm, goes by the Butcher and kills women."

The innkeeper already knew this, being just south of Windhelm, and shrugged. "Everyone in Skyrim's heard that. Hasn't killed me yet."

"Heard the Thieve's Guild works out of Riften."

"Everyone's heard that. You been living under a rock?"

"Oh, but I heard they've even got some of the guards."

 _That_ got the innkeeper's attention. She looked up. "Really? And these guards, what, steal from the barracks?"

"Well, I'm not sure exactly, but I do know that they steal from visitors. They have little shakedowns, call it a 'visitor's tax.' All the money eventually gets back to the Thieve's Guild."

"Huh." Finally, Arlen's plan came into effect. He had hoped to bring light to a new rumor, so that the innkeeper would try to top it. "Well, I've heard..." The innkeeper leaned closer. "that some Aretino boy in Windhelm is performing the Black Sacrament, trying to call the Dark Brotherhood."

"Dark Brotherhood?" Arlen raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

The innkeeper looked surprised for a moment, but then it faded. "A few years back everyone knew about them. Now they're a small organization. They're assassins, working for the Night Mother and Sithis."

"Isn't Sithis the Lord of All Daedra and Aedra?" Arlen had read that in a book a while back.

"That's what some people believe. Whatever he is, he's very powerful. They say he was created by Padomay."

"Wait, Padomay, the infinite negative force that created half of Mundus, Oblivion, _and_ Aetherius?"

"Yes."

Arlen put on a face of surprise. This Aretino would need to be visited. Arlen liked the idea of serving such powerful deities as Sithis and Padomay.

/Aventus\

Aventus Aretino stabbed the corpse, over and over. It wasn't working. He opened _A Kiss, Sweet Mother_ and read through the list again. Bones, skull. He had those. Human flesh, yes. A heart. Hard to find, but he had. Circle of candles, much easier. Yes. Dagger coated with Nightshade. Yes. Aventus coated the dagger again, to be sure, and continued to stab, bones, skull, flesh and heart.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear. Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear!" It didn't seem to be working. No Dark Brotherhood representative had shown up. "Die, Grelod! Die! Sweet Mother sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear! Sweet Mother, sweet-"

"Are you alright, boy?"

Aventus jerked, startled, then turned to look at the speaker. He was tall, dressed in fancy golden armor with fancy golden weapons. Aventus was doubtful, but somehow he knew that this was the Dark Brotherhood assassin he'd been waiting for.

"Finally, you've come!"

/Arlen\

Arlen walked into the orphanage. He didn't like this. He could kill dragons and guards and people, but there was a line he did not want to cross. Children. Killing in front of them, killing them, hurting them in any way, was not okay, even as Arlen Shadowcloak the killer. But, alas, he needed something to save someone from, and it seemed that it was Grelod the Not-So-Kind. As he walked toward a main room, he heard a scratchy old voice.

"Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating!"

And that was it. Arlen flushed with rage at this old woman who would beat children regardless of what they did, who would deny them adoption, as he had heard on his way into Riften, who would hurt and insult them. He drew the curved Elven dagger, charged into the room, and rushed at the old woman in the center. She looked up, caught his wrist. His momentum carried them both into the wall, but somehow this fragile old hag was as strong as Arlen. He suddenly realized why. Her dress began to tear, and turned into tatters. Within a few moments, Grelod the Kind had revealed her true identity as a Hagraven, the grotesque fusion of witch and bird, which was a powerful user of both magic and claw. Arlen began several cuts at Grelod, but each was deflected. A firebolt erupted from Grelod's claw, hurling Arlen into the far wall. He regained his feet, cast his Healing spell for a few moments, and turned back toward the Hagraven that was Grelod the Kind. She was charging at him, claws raised.

"FUS RO DAH!" The Shout hurled Grelod across the room, and through a door. She ended up outside, in a small fenced-in courtyard. She charged back in, slamming the door behind her, and cast another firebolt. Arlen dodged it, though, and slashed Grelod's upper arm. She shrieked, a horrid mixture of a bird's cry and a pained old woman, then threw Arlen across the room. He slammed into the wall, fell onto a bed. It shattered under his falling weight, but hurt him minimally. He scrambled to his feet, and found Grelod next to him. She shrieked again, but Arlen didn't like this time any more than the last. He stabbed her in the ribs, and the shriek intensified. Arlen drew his bow and an arrow, and shot point-blank into Grelod's chest. She flew back into a wall, slid to the ground, and died. The Hagraven sort of melted away, leaving behind the fragile, if irritable, old woman Grelod used to be.

Before the children, and, Arlen supposed, the new headmistress, could return, he disappeared out a side door and crept out of Riften in the shadows.

/Astrid\

Astrid, the leader of the only remaining Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary in Nirn, walked into the Aretino residence. Strangely, it had already been unlocked. She found Aventus Aretino sitting on a bed, the items needed for the Black Sacrament only two meters away.

"The Dark Brotherhood has come, Aventus."

"I know," Aventus said, very calmly and, much to Astrid's surprise, sort of cheerfully. "Your assassin already took my contract. Tell your leader it's already been taken care of."

"Really?" Astrid was confused. They had only recently learned of this boy, and she had come immediately. "And what did this assassin look like?"

"He had all gold armor that looked like leaves. He told me he would kill Grelod the Kind, like I asked!" Astrid continued to look expectant, so the child continued. "He had a beard. It looked like it had been cut recently. Oh! And he had all black eyes-"

Astrid was already out the door. Word had traveled fast of the black-eyed man who killed dragons and held great power, of the one in leather who had helped the Jarl of Whiterun, of the Nord in Elvish armor who could show up in an instant, help with any problem with great efficiency, and disappear again without a trace.

But Astrid was with the Dark Brotherhood. 'Without a trace' held no problem for her.

/\

Astrid found the man, walking into an inn. She followed, completely unseen and unheard, and found him sleeping inside. She gave him a small sleeping poison, redressed him in his armor, and carried him out. She draped him over Shadowmere's saddle, and rode all the way to the abandoned shack she used in between Morthal and Solitude.

It was time for the test.

/Arlen\

Arlen woke up, feeling drowsy. He found himself in an unfamiliar place, and came quickly to his feet. _Where am I...?_

Arlen saw a woman's figure, sitting high on a shelf. She was dressed in tight black leather, including a hood. There was some red trim, and her bracers and greaves were made of hardened red leather with dull gray studs. A red mask was pulled up over her nose.

"Where am I? Who are you?" Arlen was a bit frightened, but not so much, as he was still in possession of his weapons and armor.

"Does it matter?" The woman's voice was surprisingly smooth. "You're warm, dry, and still very much alive. That's more than can be said for old Grelod, hmm?"

 _Uh-oh._


	3. Chapter 3

Arlen killed the beggar, the last in his string of three contracts, and jumped into the river. Two guards crossed, investigating the apparent disappearance of the beggar, but Arlen was already plunging over the first waterfall. He landed in a deep pool, and climbed up onto a beach. Just his luck, there was a noble there, resting with his wife and a security guard. There were two horses next to them, presumably for the noblepersons. Arlen swiftly and silently slew all three, and mounted one of their horses. From there, he rode south around the Throat of the World, out of the Rift, and into Falkreath Hold. He passed Falkreath itself an hour later, found the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, and let the horse fall from the road into the small hollow outside the sanctuary.

The horse landed wrong, broke its leg, and fell into the Black Pond in the hollow. Arlen was about to kill it, but it was absorbed into the lake before he could. He just hoped it was put out of its misery.

/Garth\

Garth, an Ivarstead guard, watched the beggar mine. He sold the stone and ore to the flour mill in order to crush their wheat, and earned a pretty good profit from it. It was all spent on mead, though, which was a shame. He did feel bad for the beggar, but in the end couldn't intervene when people decided to scorn and beat him. He had never witnessed it himself, and so had no power over the situation. He had just started his shift, and so took a lap around the city. When he returned, he saw that the beggar was gone, probably in his house. That was, until he saw a blackish stain on the rocks. It didn't seem black, though, only looked like it in the half light. Garth called to a comrade, and they crossed the river.

When they got there, they found the beggar dead, and the killer nowhere to be seen.

/Alain Dufont\

Alain paced around the old Dwemer ruin, occasionally adjusting Aegisbane on his back. His two bodyguards sat in chairs next to him. It was near impossible to hear anything beyond the room he was currently in, what with all of the Dwemer machinery running throughout the ruin. Alain waited, still pacing, but his scavenger didn't show himself. Just as he was about to call it a night, four spears flew past him, killing one of his guards and shattering his chair. Sparks flew, the spears broke, and the oil under Alain's feet lit on fire. He dove from the oil, barely avoiding death, and another four spears killed his other bodyguard. Just as Alain regained his feet, he saw the mere shadow of a man against the flames. Despite the flames all around him and the steam from the Dwemer machinery, all Alain felt was cold before he slipped into Oblivion.

/Nilsine Shatter-Shield\

Nilsine felt as though she were drowning. Her sister had been killed, and nobody offered any condolences. She wanted to rip out her hair, claw at her eyes, and burn down everything flammable in Windhelm. She had tried twice, secretly, of course, to end her own life, but it hadn't worked. The rope had broken, and the guard had taken pity on her and let her off with a warning. Now, she was about to try again. She moved through the city, looking around, and slipped into an alleyway, now hidden from sight. This time, she couldn't fail. She drew her dagger, placed the point against her chest, closed her eyes...

...and dropped the dagger.

Something warm cascaded down her neck and chest, and she began to smell copper. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She looked down, and saw her front stained with red. She realized with horror that her throat had been slit, then realized that this was what she wanted. Her frown changed into a small smile, and she uttered the last words she ever would as a living person.

"Thank Talos..."

/Bothela\

Bothela, the owner of Hag's Cure in Markarth, feigned ignorance as the mysterious figure walked past into Muiri's room. She continued to make potions and poisons and vials and elixirs, unaware of the voices in the other room. They were near inaudible to a young person, but Bothela's ears were starting to go. The voices stopped, but Bothela didn't notice. She couldn't hear anything through the walls of stone, even as thin as they were. About half an hour later, the figure reemerged, flipping up his hood just before Bothela could see his face. He began to leave. Several seconds later, Muiri emerged. She usually wore a brown three-quarter sleeve jacket over her dress, but that was missing, along with her shoes and dagger. Her hair was unkempt, and her dress had slipped off one shoulder. The strange man stopped near the door, and Muiri hurried to reach him.

Bothela turned away, grabbing an ingredient, and when she turned back, Muiri pulled away from an embrace. The man now held Muiri's ring, but Bothela knew he hadn't stolen it.

"I'll never forget you," Muiri said, and the man left.

/Lurbuk\

"This is a local favorite," Lurbuk the Bard said to the empty room, "and one of the first songs I ever learned: Ragnar the Red.

" _Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from ol' Rorikstead._

 _"And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade, as he told of bold battles and gold he had made!_

 _"But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red, when he met the shield-maiden Matilda who said..._

 _"'Oh, you boast and you lie and you drink all our mead, now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!'_

 _"And so then came the clashing and slashing of steel, as the brave lass Matilda charged in full of zeal._

 _"And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no mo-o-ore..._

 _"When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!"_

Lurbuk finished the song, and the innkeeper clapped sarcastically. She wasn't happy with Lurbuk being there, and blamed him for the lack of business.

The door opened.

The salty air of the Morthal marsh swirled into the inn. A strange figure appeared, walked in, and approached the bar.

"Can I help you?"

"Where's Lurbuk?"

Lurbuk barely heard the voice, but he recoiled when he did. It dripped with venom and power.

"There, the bard."

The man turned around. "You're Lurbuk?" The venomous voice grew loud enough Lurbuk couldn't ignore it. He nodded, quite frightened. The figure approached. He was dressed all in tight black leather. There was red trim, and the bracers and greaves were of hardened, studded red leather. He had a fancy Elven dagger, and a fancy Elven bow and arrows. "Can I make a request?" Lurbuk knew that this wasn't any request. "Play, _The Age of Oppression._ " Morthal was and Imperial city, and the _Age of Oppression_ was an ode to the Stormcloaks. Lurbuk supported the Empire, and so he gulped.

Lurbuk squeaked, then managed to speak. "No, I don't want-" Lurbuk felt something sharp against his ribs. "Okay!" He squeaked again. "I'll play the _Age of Oppression!_ "

" _We'll drink to our youth, to the days come and gone, for the Age of Oppression is now nearly done."_ Lurbuk suddenly got more interested in the song, and let his guard down.

" _We'll drive out the Stormcloaks-"_ The sharp thing pressed into his ribs harder. " _The Empire! from this land that we own. With our blood and our steel we will take back our home!"_ Lurbuk decided suddenly that he would spend his last moments singing loyally, for the Empire.

 _"Down with Ulfric, the Killer of Kings! On the day of your death we will drink and we'll sing!"_

The warmth of the fire in the tavern was gone. The dagger slipped in between Lurbuk's ribs, but he smiled, knowing that he had ended his life as an Imperial.

/Hern\

The blood called to him. He rubbed his eyes, ran his hands through his hair. The blood was too strong. He collapsed, punched the floor, hurled a chair. Mill work didn't supply the blood that a vampire needed. Finally, he couldn't take it. He burst out the door, charged into the trees. He needed blood. A deer crossed his path, and he tackled it to the ground. He bit its leg, sucked out as much blood as he could. He moved on, still half-blinded, harvesting blood from all animals he could find. Soon, though, he found that his hunger wasn't being sated. He looked down, and saw that all of the blood he drank was pouring out over his shirt.

Wait, that wasn't animal blood. That was the corrupted vampire blood. Hern had been stabbed in the heart.

/Cicero\

Laughter. It never stopped. It wasn't in him anymore. He didn't hear it anymore. He _was_ the laughter. The laughter consumed him, passed through and around and above and below him.

The newcomer was strange. He had been named Listener by the Night Mother, the Binding Words spoken. Yet, Cicero still didn't trust him... something about the way he had said the Words.

Hmm...

/Amaund Motierre\

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto-" Amaund gagged. "This is quite unappetizing. Don't worry about the food." He restarted. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

He barely got through it without gagging again, especially with the constant stabbing motion. He stood, finished trying the horrid Sacrament for the moment, and sat on the chest in the corner.

"Amaund Motierre?"

Amaund jumped to his feet, startled, and turned toward the speaker. He was nowhere to be seen.

"You are Amaund Motierre, yes?"

Amaund turned around, and found a shadow of a man standing in the darkness.

"Rexus!" Amaund squeaked. "Did you see this man come in?!"

"Man?" Rexus turned to Amaund. "Whoa! Who're you?! How'd you get in?!" Rexus reached for his great sword, but found a dagger at his throat before he could even touch the pommel.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Rexus froze. The voice was poisonous, as, Rexus suspected, was the dagger. He realized that the shadow hadn't even turned toward him. It had simply known what was about to happen, and stopped it effortlessly.

"That's better. Now, Amaund, if we can begin."

"You're the Dark Brotherhood, aren't you?"

"Of course. Who do you want dead?"

"This is perhaps the most important-"

"Who do you want dead?" The question was much more forceful the second time.

"The Emperor. The Emperor of Tamriel."

/Vittoria Vici\

Vittoria was ecstatic. She was being married tonight, and it would be the very best night of her life. She sat, smiling, even while her and her husband's parents argued. Finally, a guest approached.

"The Stormcloaks say hello."

The man was dressed quite nicely, but his face was unsettling. Vittoria was too happy to notice.

"Yes, well. You tell your Stormcloak friends 'Hello' right back at them!"

That wasn't the response she would have given on any other day, but she was simply too happy today for anything else.

"Anyhow, I should address the guests."

Vittoria walked up to a balcony to address the guests. She began speaking, but stopped when she heard a loud grinding above her. Suddenly, something slammed into her back. Her last sight was the ground rushing toward her face, her last words, "What in Oblivion?!"

/Gaius Maro\

Gaius Maro reached Solitude, and was immediately approached by someone.

"Message!" A letter was thrust into Maro's hands, and he looked at it, confused. He read it then and there. It was a letter concerning a plot to kill the Emperor... led by him! He didn't have anything to do with this! He-

-was stabbed in the heart with a dagger.

"Oh..." The poison of confusion took effect immediately. "How about that?" And then Gaius Maro died, incriminating letter still clutched in his cold fingers.

/Cicero\

With great insane laughter, Cicero flew from his chambers, charging at Astrid, the Pretender. He cut aside Veezara, but then the great lapdog got in his way, already transforming. Cicero gave up his plan to kill Astrid, and began running. He couldn't kill this thing. But... but he could outrun it!

"If you can catch me, you can- agh!" The werewolf scratched, just scratched, Cicero's back, barely enough to wound him. Cicero doubled his speed, and restarted his taunt. "If you can catch me, you can have me!" Cicero once again sped up, and Arnbjorn was hard-pressed to keep up, even in werewolf form. "He he he he he he-agh!" Another grazing scratch. "Stop that! Stop it you... you... you hulking sheepdog!" Cicero's mind stopped, backed up a pace. "Ooh," he said, "hulking sheepdog... I like that. I'm going to use that again!" Cicero ran and laughed, laughed and ran, taunted, and ran. He turned every once in a while and cut the great hulking sheepdog. Overall, though, he ran. He kept cutting Arnbjorn, and it slowed him down. Cicero slowed down too, however, on account of his fatigue. It was such that Arnbjorn accompanied Cicero all the way to the Dawnstar Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary. There, Cicero slashed at Arnbjorn, pretty deep, too. The great wolf melted back into a human, and didn't hear the passphrase Cicero used.

"What is life's greatest illusion?" The Black Door asked.

"Innocence, my brother!" Cicero said frantically.

"Welcome ho-" The Black Door opened, and Cicero stormed in. He ran straight forward, cut left, down some stairs, through several corridors. He jumped through a broken stained glass depiction of Sithis, ran past Uderfykte, and closed and locked the door to the Dawnstar Sanctuary torture room. There, he looked around for supplies; bandages, healing potions, or healing spell tomes would work. He found none. He heard Uderfykte just outside the door, and he couldn't leave. Suddenly, his adrenaline ran out, and all of the scratches and wounds from Arnbjorn caught up with him. Cicero walked to the far end of the room, leaned against a wall. He cast the Clairvoyance spell, and saw, through all the walls, the Black Door open.

"Listener!" Cicero yelled, using another spell to enhance the volume of his voice. "Is that you? Oh, I knew you'd come! Send the best to defeat the best. Astrid knew her stupid wolf couldn't slay sly Cicero!" Cicero finished his speech, then coughed and choked in order to fool the Listener into thinking that poor Cicero was near death.

Cicero thought for a moment, about the Keeper and the Listener. The Night Mother wouldn't like this. Sithis certainly not. "Oh," he said, voicing the concern, "but this isn't at all what Mother would want! You kill the Keeper or I kill the Listener? Now that's madness!" He leaned back against the wall. Suddenly, he saw with his Clairvoyance spell the Listener, skidding to a stop on a bridge, a pole in front of him. The spike trap. There were sort of spears set into the wall near the entrance to the Sanctuary that would eject and retract when someone neared.

"Ouch!" Cicero taunted. "Pointy pointy! My home is well defended. I always have been a stickler for details!" Cicero smiled and suppressed a laugh. "Get it? 'Stick-ler!'" Cicero laughed uncontrollably for a few seconds. "Oh, I slay me!" Cicero laughed some more. Then he saw something else with his Clairvoyance. Oil lamps falling, and the oil below them igniting. No way the Listener survived that! After the flames died, though, Cicero still saw the Listener killing his spectral guardians.

"Oh! You're still alive! Cicero respects the Listener's abilities, of course, but could you at least slow down a bit? I'm not what I used to be... Heh." Cicero started to laugh. A few seconds later, Cicero's Clairvoyance showed him the Listener walking down an icy passage.

"Brr!" Cicero felt like a taunt again. "Chilly! You'll enjoy this. Not an original part of the sanctuary, per se. Let's call it a 'forced addition.' Forced by what? Oh, come and see!" Cicero doubted that even the Listener could survive Uderfykte, although he might run away as Cicero had. Ooh, but then he would be trapped between the great troll and a knot of spectral guardians. He could always maneuver and pit them against each other, but no! He would never think of that!

Cicero realized that Uderfykte couldn't see the Listener, that the Listener was too stealthy. He realized that he might be reached after all. The Listener was quite capable, and Cicero doubted he could defeat him. So, he started a little confession. "All right! So Cicero attacked that harlot Astrid! But what's a fool to do, when his Mother is slandered and mocked?! Surely the Listener understands!" Cicero got the terrible feeling he was wasting his breath, that the Listener couldn't hear him anyway. He resolved to continue, though. Cicero saw the Listener kill Uderfykte, then move out of the 'forced addition.' "Cicero admits, he thought the Listener would be dead by now! Heh. Maybe we could just forget all this? Hmm?" Cicero was now frightened of the Listener, and it was all he could do not to leave, to try to sneak past the Listener to freedom. "Let bygones be bygones? What do you say?"

Cicero saw that the Listener was nearing rapidly now. Cicero tried one last tactic to appeal to the Listener's soft side- if he had one, of course. "If it's any comfort," Cicero squeaked, "I do feel slightly bad about Veezara. The stupid lizard got in my way!" The attempt failed, as another, less apologetic thought occurred to Cicero. "But please," The fake pain was evident in Cicero's voice, "tell me that hulking sheepdog has bled to death!" He'd said he would use 'hulking sheepdog' again, and he did! Now he had no promises he hadn't kept. Cicero didn't need Clairvoyance anymore. The Listener was just outside the door.

"And now, we come to the end of our play. The grand finale!" Cicero pretended to choke on his own blood. Finally, the Listener opened the door, walked up to Cicero. The black eyes bored into Cicero's, and his fear continued to climb. "You caught me. I surrender." Cicero began laughing again, but it turned into more fake chokes and coughs.

"There's only one cure for your madness, Cicero. Me." The voice was as venomous as the words were meant to be.

"Oh!" Cicero had quite enjoyed that. "I like that! Very good, very good! Creative! But killing me would be a mistake!" Cicero brought back an earlier point. "Oh yes. You would displease our Mother, hmm? For she's your mother too, isn't she... Listener? Walk away!" Cicero proposed a new plan. "Let poor Cicero live! Tell the pretender Astrid that you did the job! Stabbed, strangled, drowned poor Cicero! One little itty bitty lie!" If the Listener didn't agree with the plan, Cicero would have to fight back. He feigned submission. "Do what you will. Cicero has no fight left. In the end, Sithis will judge us both."

The Listener stepped forward, drawing his dagger. Cicero gulped.

The Listener bent over the Keeper. Cicero closed his eyes, prepared to stand and fight.

The Listener dropped the dagger, took Cicero's instead. "Hey!" Cicero wanted to get in a joke before the battle. "That's my lint! Cicero is just joking, you can have it." Cicero breathed in, waiting for the chance to grab the Elven dagger and attack the Listener. Suddenly, the Listener straightened, spun on his heel, and left. Cicero smiled, then stood. He became suddenly aware of the effects of the healing potion he had inconspicuously taken. The light wounds on his back were healed, and he would be able to go take some contracts again, as he was probably banished as Keeper.

Then, he would get his revenge.

/Anton Virane\

"Hello, Anton."

Anton heard a voice behind him, and he rolled his eyes. "Yes, I am a Breton. Yes, I am from High Rock!"

"I know who you are, and where you came from. What I'm interested in is the Gourmet."

"The Gourmet? I promised I'd never tell! I'll take this secret to my grave!" Anton was cooking currently, and couldn't face his interrogator. If he could, he would have puffed out his chest and drew back his shoulders to look his most threatening.

"For the Dark Brotherhood, that can be easily arranged."

Anton felt a pang of fear. The Dark Brotherhood! The most powerful league of assassins in Tamriel. "Now, now. Let's not be hasty! His name is Balagog gro-Nolob! He's an orc! The Gourmet's an orc!"

"Thank you, Anton. You can go."

Anton sighed in relief. He could leave an encounter with a Dark Brotherhood assassin with his life! He finished stirring his pot and put the lid on, then walked into a stage room. He closed the door behind him, sat on a crate, and put his face in his hands, trying to process the elation he felt from surviving the encounter he just had. When he looked back up, though, he saw a man in front of him. He wore black and red leather, and held a dagger made of ebony. His face was mostly shadowed by his hood, but Anton could tell that his eyes were black.

"You- you said I was free to go!"

"Yes, Anton. I did say that. But what you should have realized is how small the chance was of not being lied to by a Dark Brotherhood assassin." With that, the assassin stepped forward, plunging his dagger into Anton's belly.

/Balagog gro-Nolob\

Balagog gro-Nolob, or the Gourmet, sat in the cellar of the Nightgate Inn, confident that he could make it to Solitude before anyone realized who he was. Who would guess that the Gourmet was an orc? No, he was in the clear.

Or so he thought.

Balagog turned about, and instead of seeing an empty cellar, he saw a hooded man standing just over a meter away, an Elven bow held out, the string all the way back to his cheek. At this distance, Balagog would be lucky if the arrow didn't go all the way through him.

"Ah, so perhaps someone does know who I am." Balagog knelt, awaiting his fate.

"Yes, perhaps they do."

Balagog felt an immense pain in his chest, but it was the right side, not his heart. His vision blurred, and black invaded its edges. He didn't die though, but would instead slowly bleed to death. The hooded man slung his bow on his back, and stepped up to Balagog. He dragged Balagog around the cellar, finally letting him lie in a dark corner. There, his chef's clothes were taken, and his Writ of Passage for when he reached solitude. His last sight was of the assassin dressed in the Gourmet's clothes. To anyone who didn't know Balagog, this murderous Nord _was_ the Gourmet.

The assassin's voice had been rough and full of venom and malice, but when he next spoke, Balagog heard quite the difference. It was smooth, soft, and much less murderous. When paired with the voice, the words were extremely persuasive. "I am the Gourmet."

And Balagog died.

/Emperor Titus Mede II (Or so he'd have you believe)\

The Emperor's decoy sat in the dining room, trying not to imagine how close he was to death, or the person who would bring it about for him. He knew that he was going to die sometime soon, or at least someone would try to kill him. He tried his best not to let any of this concern creep into his voice as he reassured the noblemen at the table. Just as he finished his small speech, he heard voices outside the door.

"Ah. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you..." The door opened, admitting Gianna, the castle chef, and a tall Nord dressed in the apron and hat of a cook, with some sort of stylized serving spoon on both. "...the Gourmet." The decoy didn't actually know the Gourmet, but the real Emperor Titus Mede II did, so he was forced to believe that this was him. "He will be serving his signature dish, the Potage le Magnifique." The Emperor was looking forward to this part. When Gianna set down the bowls, he took the traditional first bite, then invited the guests to begin eating.

"I prefer a good roast duck," one nobleman said to the Gourmet, "but your soup will do."

"Roast, you say?" The Gourmet's smooth voice sounded. At the same time, fake Titus Mede II felt something wrong. His stomach churned, and his throat felt as though it were burning. The Emperor started to speak, but a croak was all that came out.

Emperor Titus Mede II, or so everyone thought he was, died believing that the Castle Dour chef had poisoned him.

/Viktor\

Viktor, a noble in the company of the Emperor, was quite surprised at the turn of events. He stated his opinion about the Potage as compared to his preferred meal, a roast duck, when several things happened at once.

The Gourmet said, "Roast, you say?" and Viktor thought it was a genuine culinary question born of genuine interest. The Emperor croaked, literally and figuratively, and the Penitus Oculatus guards drew their swords to attack the castle chef.

The Gourmet, following his question, threw fire at Viktor, setting him alight.

"Perhaps you would like to be roasted!"

The last thing ever seen by Viktor was the castle chef being killed, the Gourmet drawing a dagger, and fire. Oh so much fire.

/Peresio\

Peresio, a Penitus Oculatus agent, couldn't have been more excited. He was about to kill a very powerful Dark Brotherhood assassin who had just made an attempt on the Emperor's life. As Maro gave the speech behind him, Peresio stretched his sword arm and prepared to charge. As Maro's speech ended, Peresio started forward. He let his two comrades pass him, so that he could come in behind like the final blow of a hammer. The first agent was cut down, the second one thrown backward by some strange power. Now only Peresio remained. He ducked a dagger swipe, slashed the assassin's leg. The assassin's ebony dagger flashed upward, drawing Peresio's sword above his head. In an instant, the assassin's off-hand was around Peresio's throat, and he was being dragged toward the edge of the tall stone bridge. Finally, the assassin threw him over the edge, and he began a swift tumble toward Solitude. After what seemed an eternity, Peresio looked down and found an Argonian directly below him. He landed on the unlucky citizen, and managed not to break any of his own bones. He rolled off the dead man, looked up toward the bridge, and began to plot his revenge.

He had nearly finished his plan when an arrow slammed into his throat.

/Arlen\

A perfect shot. Arlen slung his Elven bow on his back, and picked up one of the agents' shields. He tossed it onto the stairs to the city, jumped onto it and rode it down out of the city. When he reached the bottom of the staircase far below, he found Shadowmere already waiting there, ready to carry Arlen to the sanctuary to help his Family. As soon as Arlen mounted, Shadowmere took off, running along the Solitude docks, then jumping to a boat, another, another, and finally the opposite shore of the bay. Once that was done, Shadowmere turned straight south, galloping longer and faster than any other horse could. He galloped past Mortha, around a mountain, past Rorikstead, and past a lake before arriving at Falkreath. Arlen could see the smoke from the burning sanctuary, and had been seeing it for half of his trip. He rode Shadowmere through Falkreath, then to the sanctuary. Shadowmere immediately kicked a Penitus Oculatus agent off the road and onto a rock, killing him instantly. Arlen leaped from the saddle, landed on another agent, and stabbed him. There were two more, but Shadowmere was more than capable of killing them. Arlen sprinted past the battle, and did a double take. Festus Krex was pinned to a tree outside the sanctuary by many dozen arrows. Arlen knelt at his feet, even as grumpy as the old man had been, then sprinted into the sanctuary. The Black Door had ben cast aside. It had been enchanted to ask, "What is the music of life?" when something was in front of it, and right now it was facing a Nightshade flower. It kept repeating the question at the flower, and it would say, "You are not worthy." every time a Penitus Oculatus agent yelled in pain or triumph. Arlen stopped next to it.

"Silence, my brother." It was both a command to be silent and the answer to the question. He then picked the flower, and the Black Door rested. Arlen continued into the Sanctuary, down the first set of stairs, and hid around a corner.

"Which one was the rat?" The question indicated at least two Penitus Oculatus agents; one to ask the question and one to be asked the question.

"One of these corpses, I think. Does it matter?" The second agent. With that, Arlen slipped silently into the room, unseen and unheard. He slit one agent's neck, then stabbed the other before he could react. He started toward some stairs, knelt next to Veezara. The Argonian had been stabbed and simply tossed aside, and Arlen nearly wept at the sight of his corpse. Shadow scales were quite literally extinct, now. Down the stairs, he heard a howl.

"Arnbjorn!" Arlen sprinted down the stairs, stabbed an archer, and beheaded, with a dagger, a second agent. Arnbjorn killed a third, then began to run further into the sanctuary. Arlen ran after him. Arnbjorn was suddenly thrown backward, past Arlen, an arrow in his throat. Arlen cried out, "No!" Now, all of his sadness and panic turned into pure hate and anger at the Penitus Oculatus order. He sprinted further into the sanctuary, found the agent who had killed Arnbjorn, and picked him up. The agent was surprised at the feat of strength, and even _more_ dead when Arlen threw him into the wall at high speeds. Arlen then cast about for his dagger, found it next to a corpse. The corpse belonged to Gabriella. Arlen let the tears flow freely now, but every time one escaped his eyes, his anger grew and his sadness shrunk. Now, he was nearly blind with rage and hate, and his heart pounded at well over twice its normal speed. He tore into the next room, and found Nazir facing off with a high-ranking, highly skilled Penitus Oculatus agent. He sprinted up some stairs, grabbed the agent by the throat, and threw him headfirst off the raised platform they were on. The agent died on impact, and Arlen turned to Nazir.

"We were set up!"

Nazir almost smiled. "Seeing as most of us are now dead," he yelled over the roar of the flames around them, "I assumed as much! And before you ask, no, I don't think it was you. Well, I might have, but you saving my sorry hide just now sort of erased any doubts."

"We need to get out of here!" Arlen started to run off.

"You've got that right! It's only a matter of time before we're roasted alive!"

Arlen ran through the sanctuary, avoiding flames, killed an agent. The Night Mother's voice suddenly sounded in his head.

 _Listener! I am your only salvation. Come, embrace me._

Arlen ran into the room, found the Night Mother's coffin, and sprinted into it. The coffin closed, creaked, and crashed through the stained-glass representation of Sithis that the sanctuary had, then plunged into the water below.

 _Sleep..._

And Arlen did.

/\

Arlen awoke. The Night Mother's coffin was being tilted upright, and was finally opened. Nazir and Babette stood outside. The sanctuary wasn't burning anymore, but that wasn't reassuring. It was mostly collapsed, and there was barely a path to the entrance. Arlen stepped out of the coffin, suddenly aware that the Night Mother had told him to find Astrid. He walked up some stairs, found his way through to Astrid's sleeping quarters. There was a large hole in the wall, and he stepped through it. On the ground, burnt almost past recognition, was Astrid. She had an iron dagger in her hand, and there was crushed Nightshade next to her. She was surrounded in candles.

She was the Black Sacrament.

Astrid saw Arlen and choked.

"I know you'll expect a speech. I'm telling you straight, though. I am the traitor. I envied you for being Listener, I just wanted everything to go back to normal. Now, I realize that I shouldn't have trusted Maro. I now realize it would have been a mistake even if the sanctuary hadn't been burned. You see? I now know that you are the real leader of the Dark Brotherhood. I have performed the Black Sacrament because of this. I want you to kill-" Astrid choked, then started again. "I want you to kill... me."

Arlen lowered his eyes, picked up Astrid's dagger, the Blade of Woe, from next to her.

"I suppose I should honor the Sacrament." Arlen was extremely saddened. Astrid- Arlen's sadness melted. Astrid had tried to kill the Listener, the only hope of survival for the Dark Brotherhood. In doing so, she had gotten Festus Krex, Arnbjorn, Veezara, Gabriella, and herself killed, the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary burned. "And I will do so gladly," Arlen finished, then stabbed Astrid.

/Cicero\

"Ho ho ho, and he he he, break that lute across my knee. And if that bard should choose to fight, why then I'll set his clothes alight!" Cicero absent-mindedly sang. He moved from song to song, all of them about death. "And if I chance to see a cat, I'll feed its corpse to my pet rat... when next I see that fair maid Nelly, I'll plunge my knife into her belly... and if I spy a singing bird, I'll snap its neck before it's heard... and I said to the baker, "You're not dead, your a faker!" But if that's you wish, I'll oblige... madness is merry, and merriment's might, when the jester comes calling with his knife in the night..." Cicero skipped through Dawnstar, and found the Jarl's longhouse. He went inside, still posing as the Jarl's jester. He stood next to the throne, every once in a while telling a joke or performing a trick. Suddenly, he heard a voice outside that he hadn't heard since...

Nazir!

The old Redguard had found him! Poor Cicero only had this Elvish dagger that the Listener had given him, and knew he couldn't defend himself against that swordsman!

Fear was erased, though, when he deciphered the words Nazir was saying. "I hope this sanctuary is going to work. I'm only happy we managed to get the coffin there before we arrived."

Then, the un-child, Babette spoke. "Yes. I would have rather hated carrying that with us."

Cicero kept up a guise of merriment, and ignored the voices. So the Falkreath sanctuary _had_ been burned!

Well, the Listener would be in Dawnstar soon, visiting the new Sanctuary.

Then, Cicero would have his revenge.

/Emperor Titus Mede II\

Emperor Titus Mede II, the _real_ Emperor, sat in his study and waited patiently for his demise to arrive. He had ordered it several days ago, and everyone seemed so intent on delaying the person delivering it. Titus laughed out loud at his mental joke, then continued to wait. He was actually quite alright with his death. He was old, and had lived a full life. Now, he would be killed, and would bring joy to a league of murderers.

Below, Titus heard a brief yell, then silence. His doom had arrived. He heard one more yell, then silence. A clash of steel, then more silence. Then, he heard a soft creak next to his room. Above, he heard several thumps, and the unmistakable sound of bodies falling. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door to his quarters exploded inward. A hooded man walked in, holding a dagger casually at his side.

"Ah, my demise is here! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" The Emperor's laugh turned into a cough. "Before you kill me, though, can I ask one favor? Just the last wishes of a man close to death?"

"Fine." The voice was impatient and filled with malice.

"Could you kill the man responsible for my death? I mean, aside from you, of course!" The Emperor laughed again.

"Amaund Motierre." The Emperor recognized the name as a man on his Elder Council.

"Yes. If you could kill him, I will be in your debt." The Emperor laughed uncontrollably again. "In fact, why don't you collect that debt beforehand? Take everything I own, including my life!"

"I will. I'll kill Motierre. He deserves it, anyhow."

"Thank you for this act of kindness, probably the only one you've ever done. Now, get on with it!"

The Emperor was stabbed in the heart, and looked into the sky. Just before he died, he saw great statues of stone, three figures in the sky, and a great palace filled with heroes. Someone said, "Welcome," and the Emperor knew he would see his ancestors soon.

"Ah!" he said just before death, "so Sovngarde _is_ real!"

/Amaund Motierre\

"Ah, well," Motierre said impatiently. "Based on previous efficiency, if he's not back by now, he's probably dead."

"What makes you say that?"

Motierre started, turned, and both he and his chair toppled over. Once again, the assassin had approached Motierre completely unseen and unheard. Motierre was even in a small, well-lit room with only one door and no windows, and yet the assassin still managed to slip in without being noticed.

"Where's the money, Motierre?" Motierre had already heard of the Emperor's death, and was eager to hand over payment.

"In an urn, where we first met. You've done Tamriel a great service."

"Oh, and one more thing." The assassin's tone was suspicious.

"Yes?" Motierre straightened cautiously.

"The Emperor asked one last thing of me, and I granted it."

"Oh? And what was that?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

And Motierre was killed silently in the back room of the Bannered Mare.

/Cicero\

Finally! The hoofbeats were nearing. They were faster than any other horse, and much more steady. Best of all, though, the hoofbeats were the only sound. Both rider and horse were silent otherwise. The Listener and Shadowmere! The hoofbeats stopped with a scrape, only a few meters away and behind a small stone outcropping. The Listener turned the corner, and Cicero shouted.

"Listener!" He put as much anger as he could into the one word. The Listener approached cautiously.

"Cicero?"

"Oh, yes! It is Cicero! You were a fool to spare me! What, did you think I'd be grateful? Cicero should be Listener! Not you! Now, you will die!" The revenge approached.

The Listener started to draw a dagger, and Cicero recognized it as the Pretender's. Astrid's dagger.

"Ahhh... Gotcha! Oh, Listener, you should see the look on your face!" Cicero laughed. Cicero's plan for vengeance had already been completed! Astrid the pretender had been killed, the Listener rendered dumbfounded by one of Cicero's tricks, and the Dark Brotherhood had moved into the superior of two Sanctuaries! And, best of all, the great hulking sheepdog, Arnbjorn, had been killed by the Penitus Oculatus! When he finished laughing, Cicero looked back to the Listener, and suddenly had the urge to accompany and serve him. "Oh, Cicero has returned! Not to kill the kind Listener, but to serve, until one of us dies horribly, in service to our Mother! Best friends forever!"

"Good. Follow me, I need your help."

Cicero had never been happier. "Oh, yes! Cicero and the Listener! On the hunt!"

The Listener laughed softly. "I like you, Cicero."

"And why's that?" Cicero was interested, now.

"Because, you're a murdering, horrible, conniving assassin. You're also a quite entertaining and amusing jester. A perfect, frightening mix. Oh, and here." The Listener tossed something through the air. Cicero caught it, and found himself holding his old dagger.

"My lint!" Cicero referred back to the joke he had made when the Listener had taken the knife. Cicero then dropped the Elven dagger that the Listener had given him, and buckled the ebony one to his waist.

Cicero had gotten his revenge.

/Nazir\

"Why am I not surprised to learn that Cicero's still alive? I still can't stomach the little clown, but if you've welcomed him here, I won't question it." Nazir finished his speech, then turned and looked at the newly furnished Sanctuary.

"I trust you had a torture room put in?" Babette's voice sounded below. After a few moments, she came up over the stairs, offered a tip to a Dark Brotherhood Initiate trying to make a poison, then turned and saw Nazir, Arlen, and Cicero. "So... wait." She looked quite confused. "Cicero's still alive? And we're all friends again? I swear, I can hardly keep up..."

"Yes, we are all friends again." The Listener's words had a note of finality about them. "Remember? Astrid was the real enemy."

"As much as I hate it," Nazir said, "I have to agree with the Listener. She tried to kill him and undermine the Night Mother and Sithis themselves, and in doing so got most of our Family killed. Crazy old Cicero just realized the problem before the rest of us did."

"Crazy?" Cicero cut in. "Cicero? That's madness..." The jester's tone was quite crazy, and the irony made Babette laugh.

"I have to say, Listener: you've done well for this old Sanctuary. You spent that 10,000 well."

"Ha!" Cicero laughed. "He spent 19,000! The contract was worth 20,000!"

The Listener looked at Cicero, then back at Nazir. His full-black eyes didn't seem to move, but his head gave away where he was looking.

"It's true," he said. "The contract as 20,000. If you want the remaining thousand septims, you're welcome to them. It's only fair that the whole sum goes into the Brotherhood's stores."

Nazir, surprising everyone, laughed. The Listener had lied about the sum, of course, but Nazir was still quite happy. First, he had lied successfully to the best liar in Skyrim. Secondly, he had said that 10,000 was the payment for the Emperor's death, when in reality it had been twice that. Lastly, he had spent nearly all of the money on the Dark Brotherhood, regardless of the lie. "No, no. Keep it. That great of a lie deserves at least 1,000 septims!"

"I do agree," Babette said, "that you should've detected the lie, Nazir."

"Yes, yes. I should have." Nazir laughed again, shook his head, and walked off.

The Dark Brotherhood was far from doomed.


	4. Chapter 4

Yes, I realize that my Thalmor OCs both have names that start with E, in addition to Elenwen's E name. I don't care. The letter E works with High Elf names remarkably well, so I'm going to use it.

After Esbern's chapter, the story is going to be mostly from Arlen's perspective.

/\

"What's a fella got to do to get a drink around here?" Razelan asked for perhaps the seventh time.

"Only ask, my friend." Arlen had reverted to his Goldentongue voice in order not to make any guests nervous or draw attention to himself. He sat next to the drunk, handing him a brandy.

"Oh, thank you!" Razelan exclaimed. "Finally, a kind heart in a crowd of pinchpennies and guttersnipes! If there is anything I can do for you-"

"Cause a scene," Arlen whispered.

"Of course! If there's-" Arlen stood and walked away. Razelan stood and started a small speech.

"Malborn. I'm ready." Malborn, the Bosmer spy that had accompanied Arlen, opened the door behind the bar. They passed through a corridor and into a kitchen. Malborn and the Khajiit chef had an argument, which Arlen ignored. He proceeded into a third room, and opened a chest inside. In the chest was his Dark Brotherhood armor, the Blade of Woe, and his Bag of Collecting. Inside this was his money, of course, the strange gem he had found in the Falkreath Sanctuary, some food and drink, and several notes, but was mostly filled with potions and poisons. Arlen spent a minute or two donning his armor and buckling his dagger and bag to his belt, then opened the door into the restricted part of the Thalmor Embassy.

/Eruion\

Eruion, a Thalmor wizard, stood in the Embassy, bored. There were two warriors with him, but nobody else. Everyone else was at Elenwen's reception. Eruion wandered, debating whether or not to experiment with new spells on the warriors. He resolved that he would do just that, so he turned back to look at them.

Both were dead. Two Thalmor soldiers, with their skill and their high-quality equipment, lay in heaps, their throats slit, blood still running from the wounds. Eruion readied two fireballs, looking around for the killer. He threw the fireballs into two of the darkest shadows in the room, but nobody was there. He spun around, threw fire into shadows again, and was met with the same results. He kept turning, throwing fire into corners, until, finally, one of his fireballs met with an arrow. The arrow was set alight, and the fireball exploded, leaving the flaming arrow still streaking toward Eruion. Someone obviously didn't like the Thal-

Eruion was hit in the throat by the flaming arrow, and died instantly.

/Arlen\

Arlen was lucky he didn't miss. The fireballs were meant to explode on impact with something, and if Arlen hadn't hit the fireball, it surely would have killed him. Now, seeing the dead mage and his deep hood, Arlen got an idea. Nords were quite a bit smaller than High Elves, and that fact could make Arlen's plan work that much better. He stripped the mage of his robes, and put them on over his own armor. It fit nearly perfectly, seeing as the armor didn't give Arlen much more bulk, just some. The Thalmor style boots were large and flexible, so they fit over Arlen's boots as well. They may not be necessary for the disguise, for the robes hung quite low, but Arlen preferred them, just in case. The gloves were necessary, but they didn't fit over Arlen's. He had to put the Dark Brotherhood gloves into the back of his belt. He then flipped up the deep hood, which hid his face almost completely, and left the building.

He found himself in a courtyard, with a tower on the other side. Now to test the disguise.

/Enningdiil\

Enningdiil, a Thalmor soldier, stood next to the tower, watching the newcomer closely. His hood was pulled forward more than the uniform allowed, so Enningdiil guessed that he was a new recruit. The wizard strolled up to Enningdiil, and began to speak. Enningdiil immediately recognized the voice of Eruion, one of the higher-ranking wizard. No wonder he hadn't been scolded for his hood being so low.

"You're off-duty for the day. Order E. She wants to see you." Enningdiil straightened. 'E' was the code First Emissary Elenwen used to give all of her semi-secret and highly important orders. The fact that she sent a high-ranking wizard like Eruion with an Order E meant that something good was in store for Enningdiil. He rushed off immediately. "Oh," Eruion said, "She also said, in her words, 'He needs to practice being a civilized person. Tell him to come in through the front door.'"

"Yes, sir!" Enningdiil rushed off for his promotion.

/Rulindil\

Rulindil, the highest-ranking Thalmor wizard at the embassy, ended the argument. Gissur was getting quite irritating, and Rulindil was finished with the discussion. As Gissur left, Rulindil looked down at his interrogation notes. They told him that the captive, Etienne Rarnis, seemed close to revealing the truth about the Blades agent's location. Rulindil was the one who wrote the notes, so he had already known this, but it didn't hurt to look back over them.

Outside the door, Gissur yelled. The yell was interrupted, though, cut short by something apparently dreadful. Rulindil charged out, taking in several things at once. Foremost of these was the body. Or, bodies. There was a dead Thalmor agent with his throat slit and Gissur with an arrow in his chest. Second in Rulindil's mind was the lack of an assailant. There was no shadow, no footsteps, no sign of whoever had killed these two men. Well, except for the two arrows flying from the darkness in rapid succession. The first pinned Rulindil's robe to the wall, the second pinned his eye to his brain.

/Etienne Rarnis\

The footsteps stopped. Etienne looked up, now oblivious to the pain. The Thalmor soldier that had been pacing now lay on the ground, blood seeping from underneath him. No killer was in sight, though, and Etienne became aware of his rapidly rising fear. There was a slight creak then, and a click. Then several sets of footsteps.

"We know you're here, spy!" The unmistakable voice of a High Elf rang out. "You come out, and you and your friend will be released." There was a whistle, then, but it wasn't a Thalmor soldier. This wasn't natural. Half a second after the whistle started, there was a wet _thunk_ and the sounds of an armored man collapsing. The ring of a sword being drawn, another whistle. A grunt, some scrapes, a crash, then a clatter, and a much louder crash, then complete silence.

"Who's Esbern?" Etienne started. Someone was now standing next to him.

"A Blades agent, I told you. He's hiding out in the Ratway Warrens." Suddenly, Etienne's shackles were broken. He fell to the ground, then slowly straightened. He wasn't in as much pain as he had initially thought. Now that he was free, he was aware of a hooded man standing a meter away, a Wood Elf at his back. Etienne followed as the hooded man left, and the Elf handed him an Elven mace from a body. Etienne nodded his gratitude, then continued to follow the hooded man through a trapdoor and into a cave. By the time Etienne caught up with the hooded man, he was searching a body with a dead Frost Troll behind him.

"Who are you?" Etienne asked.

"I'm the Dragonborn," the man responded. "And this is Malborn. I share the blood of the dragons... and his name implies that he wasn't born properly. Which do you think is better?"

Etienne could tell it was a joke, and so he played along, or at least attempted to. "Born of dragons is much better that born in a faulty manner."

Malborn emitted a highly sarcastic laugh. "Can we move on, please? And, what is that armor you're wearing, Dragonborn? Isn't that..." The Dragonborn's face hardened. Now that Malborn had pointed it out, Etienne recognized that the Dragonborn was wearing the armor of the Dark Brotherhood. Being a member of the Thieves Guild of Riften, Etienne was well acquainted with the Dark Brotherhood. He knew how secretive its members were; he himself was secretive about his membership in the Thieves Guild. The Dragonborn seemed to argue with himself for a moment. Then, suddenly, he lunged forward, burying his dagger in Malborn's chest several times. Etienne understood. If someone had figured out Etienne's choice of career that he didn't want to know about it, he would have done the same thing. The difference between him and a Dark Brotherhood assassin was that the assassin had precious few exceptions who would be allowed to know about his membership in the Brotherhood, and nearly all of them were also Dark Brotherhood members.

"Do _you_ recognize my armor?" The Dragonborn suddenly turned on Etienne.

"Yes, I do. It's the armor of the Dark Brotherhood, who I happen to know is quite well acquainted with we Thieves Guild members." Etienne looked the Dragonborn in the eye, unwavering.

"Ah, that. With a recent change in leadership, neither the Thieves Guild nor Maven Black-Briar have any further affiliation with the Dark Brotherhood. And neither of them can do anything about it, because each one of our assassins is more skilled and powerful than your organization and Maven Black-Briar combined." The Dragonborn was equally unwavering, and Etienne grew very concerned for his life. "Lucky for you," the Dragonborn said, "I plan to join the Thieves Guild sooner or later. I can't very well do that with your blood on my hands, can I? Let's go. I'll get you to a carriage." Etienne suppressed a sigh of relief, then followed the Dragonborn.

/Arlen\

Arlen changed into the clothes he had worn to Elenwen's party in order to once again hide his Dark Brotherhood armor, then joined Etienne on the Solitude carriage, heading toward Riften. They rode over main roads only, heading through Morthal and just north of the large mountain near Whiterun. When they emerged from the salt marshes of Morthal hold, everyone heaved a sigh of relief. They passed around a mountain, and into the plains of Whiterun hold.

"Pass around the south side of the large mountain, please, driver," Arlen said. The carriage driver hesitated, but agreed once Arlen gave him an extra five gold coins. As they passed through Riverwood, Arlen waited for Etienne to look away. When he did, Arlen jumped out of the carriage, rolled, and came up ready for anything.

Just a normal day in Riverwood. Faendal chopping wood. Alvor at his forge. Sven playing inside the Sleeping Giant Inn. Stump, the dog, running around town being chased by his child companion.

Arlen walked into the Inn, took the last door on the right, closed it behind him. He then opened a cabinet, clicked open the false back panel, and walked into Delphine's secret room. She was pacing, biting one nail and staring at the ground. Arlen approached unseen and unheard, startling her when she looked up.

"Don't-"

But before Delphine could scold him, Arlen interrupted. "The Thalmor know nothing of the dragons."

"Really?" Delphine was quite obviously skeptical. "I find that hard to believe."

"Why'd you send me if you wouldn't trust my findings?" Arlen challenged. Delphine seemed to argue with herself for several moments, then looked up.

"You're right. Did they at least have leads?"

"A man named Esbern, supposedly hiding-"

"Esbern?! Esbern's alive?" Delphine then began muttering. "That old fool..."

"They seem to think he's hiding out in Riften." Arlen told her.

"Then you'd best go find him. You should talk to Brynjolf. If anyone knows where Esbern is, it's the leader of the Thieve's Guild."

/Thaer\

Thaer, a carriage driver, wasn't happy with how far he was from Solitude. It was Solitude he was posted, and wouldn't stay any longer than he had to at Riften. The man who'd paid for the ride was gone, disappeared somehow. Now all Thaer was left with was this broke beggar in the back. What was his name? Edward? Elenwen? No... Elenwen had come from somewhere else... where was it... Etienne. The beggar's name was Etienne. Thaer looked back to Etienne, contemplating kicking him from the carriage. As he looked, though, the mysterious black-eyed man had reappeared.

"Where'd you go?" Thaer was now dead-set on kicking them both from his wagon.

But the black-eyed man didn't look up.

"Alright," Thaer said. "Get off my cart."

Still, he didn't look up.

"Fine. I'll have to push you off myself."

That got his attention. Just, not quite the attention Thaer had expected. The man looked at him, slowly, calmly, steadily. Then, a slow, calm, steady shrug, and one word: "Try."

Thaer turned back to driving the carriage. "I don't feel up to it," he whimpered, almost to himself.

/Brynjolf\

Brynjolf sat in the marketplace, waiting, watching the men and women of Riften stroll by. He was trying to decide whether to move his operation to Whiterun or Solitude, where everyone was richer. Then he saw a lad walk past who was quite obviously overflowing with septims. He had several pouches on his belt, and all but one clanked slightly. It was exactly the kind of person most inexperienced thieves would steal from. But then, Brynjolf was far from inexperienced. He recognized the last pouch as one of Collecting. It didn't clank. It didn't rattle. It didn't move. There would be a lot in there.

The second thing Brynjolf noticed was the item hanging next to the bag. It was curved, single-edged. The binding was simple black leather. The crosspiece was curved slightly downward, the pommel slightly upward. There was an empty slot for a jewel. It looked at first glance crude and ill-crafted. But Brynjolf, no stranger to daggers, realized the hidden potential in the weapon. The blade, for example. It had a sort of joint on it near the crosspiece, where a very small spike jutted out from the main blade. That would tear through most anything. The back of the weapon was made up of dark metal in layered plates. That could work as a sort of saw. Brynjolf knew what it was made of, too: ebony. The literal best metal to use on a weapon or a piece of armor discovered so far. The only thing that could make it better was an infused Daedra Heart or an enchantment or both. This dagger had a sort of red sheen around the jewel slot in the pommel, and Brynjolf recognized that as an enchantment. The craftsmanship of the dagger, the true craftsmanship, could easily match the best of Daedric weapons.

The last thing Brynjolf noticed was that as the man approached, he was completely silent. He walked with purpose, to be sure. Quickly, yes. Silent? Completely. The man's shoes were normal. Clothes, normal. Nothing that could be enchanted to make him move silently. No necklace or ring. No piece of armor with an enchant-able metal in it. It was simply the way of the man.

A thief.

/Brand-Shei\

Brand-Shei, a Dark Elf merchant, decided he would actually listen to Brynjolf's pitch this time. He was talking something about the 'Falmer Elixir.' There was nothing Brand-Shei wanted to hear in this speech, but he sat on his box and listened anyways. He was about to stand and leave, when he felt something. A whisper of a feeling. A shadow of a touch. He thought maybe he had shifted, but that wasn't it. Finally, he dismissed it. Nothing was different. Nobody was near him. He went back to manning his counter, eyeing the man who had met with Brynjolf. Everyone who did that ended up dead, in jail, or stealing something.

And, speaking of stealing...

"Brand-Shei! Turn out your pockets!"

He did. And inside one of them, previously unbeknownst to the Dark Elf, was the ring of a competing merchant, Madesi.

There was no way out of this.

/Gian the Fist\

Gian finished the ale, then sang out an old Redguard sailing song.

"Ho ho ho, and a bottle of mead!" He stopped then, dropped the bottle, and stood. Someone was coming. A shadow, a whisper. No, not even that. They were invisible, silent, deadly. But the skeevers weren't. One fell outside the door, and Gian immediately knew something had killed it. Then the door opened, so stealthily and slowly that Gian didn't notice the change until it was closing again. Still, he couldn't see anybody. He made sure his gloves were still on. They enhanced his strength when he just used his hands, and were quite effective. Just as he was about to move forward and attack the unseen adversary, an arrow flew out of the darkness and impaled him.

/Esbern\

Esbern remained tense, his ebony dagger clutched tightly in his fist. The Thalmor were here. There were at least four sets of footsteps outside, which may be difficult for an old man to kill alone. Esbern wasn't alone, though. The ones of fire and ice were on his side, the ones from Oblivion. The former Imperial was on his side, and the cannibal chef. Even the deaf hag might-

Three. Three sets of footsteps.

Two sets. No clanking or clattering, no thumps, just a complete end to the footsteps.

One set.

The last set of footsteps disappeared. Esbern relaxed, and sheathed his dagger. They hadn't found him. The Thalmor had left. Esbern was quite reassured by this. His cover was still in place, for now.

The old man nearly jumped out of his skin when a knock sounded at the door. No warning, no footsteps. No clatter of equipment. Just a knock.

"Who is that?" Esbern drew his dagger again, and slid aside a sheet of metal in his door. It opened a slit, and Esbern saw only the visitor's most striking feature: his deep, solid black eyes.

"I'm looking for Esbern."

Esbern nearly fell over. His cover had been blown, and by some unknown power that could kill four Thalmor soldiers completely unnoticed.

"What?" Esbern decided he would go for deception. "That's not me. I'm not Esbern." He closed the slit in the door, but continued to listen.

"Esbern! The 30th of Frostfall! Remember the 30th of Frostfall!"

Esbern did. It was the day that the Aldmeri Dominion had given Emperor Titus Mede II the ultimatum that ended up starting the Great War. That was when most of the Blades Agents in Tamriel had been slaughtered. Esbern opened the slit.

"You're going to give me a good reason you brought that up." Esbern was a bit annoyed at the reminder of the Blades' failure.

"Delphine sent me."

"D-Delphine?" Esbern remembered the young blonde who had accompanied him in most of his Blades adventures. "She's alive?"

"Yes. She seems to think you should know that I'm the Dragonborn."

That was preposterous, and Esbern stated his doubt. In return, the visitor Shouted.

"FUS RO DAH!" The door exploded inward. Esbern was thrown backward into a chair, which in turn slid into the wall. The black-eyed man walked through the shattered door. Not just a black-eyed man, though. The Dragonborn. The only person who could have possibly Shouted with such power.

Esbern was in the presence of the Dragonborn.

/Arlen\

Arlen walked into Esbern's hideout. He hadn't wanted to destroy the door and throw the old man back, but he needed to prove his identity and get Esbern back to Delphine. He saw the Esbern in a chair, and approached. The former Blades agent looked at him in admiration and a bit of fear. Arlen understood this, and so tried to reassure Esbern by helping him up.

"Do you believe me, now?"

"Yes, I do. But it's the beginning of the End Times. We haven't the preparations or the time. We're all doomed-"

"You forget, I'm the Dragonborn. It's my destiny to kill the dragons."

"Yes, yes." Esbern began to move about the room, and picked up several things. "We mustn't leave everything for the Thalmor, eh?" When he finished, Esbern turned to Arlen. "Take me to Delphine."

Arlen turned, killed a newcomer Thalmor agent who had been eavesdropping, and jogged from the room. Esbern was close behind, summoning Flame and Frost Atronachs when Thalmor appeared. Arlen managed to simply jog past burning and frozen Thalmor agents, leading Esbern past all of his Atronachs' skirmishes. When they emerged into the Ragged Flagon tavern, Arlen tossed a coin purse to Delvin Mallory, and they continued through the sewers. Arlen flipped a lever in order to lower a wooden bridge, but had to stop halfway along it. A few surviving Thalmor were hot on their tail, so Arlen turned to fight them. They were quite experienced in battle, and Arlen was usually hidden anyways. This time, though, he had no cover, no element of surprise. He drew the Blade of Woe in one hand, deflecting a strike.

"Get out of here, Esbern!" The old man didn't hesitate. He summoned two Frost Atronachs, then ran from the Ratway sewers. Arlen reached into his Bag of Collecting, using his thoughts to summon a weapon. He had recovered several powerful weapons in his travels, but the one he needed was one called Windshear. It was a Redguard scimitar, but was accompanied by the wind itself. Arlen flipped his two blades end over end, threw a Thalmor soldier off the bridge, and caught the weapons again. He used Windshear's pommel to knock a Thalmor soldier into one of his comrades, and both were crushed by a Frost Atronach. Arlen then stabbed a man with both of his weapons, using them as handles to hurl him into the wall. Three more soldiers remained, and they worked in perfect harmony to destroy both Atronachs. Now Arlen was surrounded against a wall. Two of the Thalmor soldiers attacked at once, and Arlen managed to tangle their weapons together with a well-placed parry. The third attacked, and Arlen dodged to the left. The agent's sword wedged itself between two stones, and Arlen turned. The Thalmor were now in a line in front of him.

"FUS RO DAH!" The line of Thalmor flew over and around each other, tangled in a knot. Arlen then summoned his flame spell, and ignited the pile of bodies.

/\

Arlen walked into the Sleeping Giant Inn, and took a seat while Esbern and Delphine caught up lost time. After they were finished, the three of them entered Delphine's secret room through her cabinet. They spoke for several minutes about how to stop Alduin, when Esbern pulled out a book and started reading aloud. He read about Alduin's Wall, Sky Haven Temple, and the Ancient Nords. Arlen and Delphine didn't understand, but Esbern marked a location on Arlen's map and headed out. Arlen, quite confused and a bit overwhelmed, supposed he had better set out.

When he finally exited Riverwood, Arlen cast about for a pit or trench. When he found one, he whistled. The pit immediately filled with black, inky liquid, which began to boil. Out of the bubbling liquid came Shadowmere, Arlen's pitch-black Dark Brotherhood horse. He had glowing red eyes, and a black saddle with the Hand of the Dark Brotherhood on it. Arlen mounted, and set out to the west.

/\

Arlen knew something was wrong when Shadowmere whinnied. He never did that. He was silent, disciplined, and unafraid. When he whinnied in fear, Arlen was, for the first time in several months, actually concerned. He dismounted, and Shadowmere immediately returned to Sanctuary via another Black Mere.

 _Taking the next ridge alone,_ Arlen thought. He stuck to the late evening shadows, and crawled to the top of the hill. The next valley was split down the middle by the river Arlen and Shadowmere had been following for the day. It was also netted with catwalks and slightly raised wooden platforms. Arlen knew that they were in the Reach Hold because there were a few ancient Dwemer structures, and the whole valley was crawling with the Forsworn Reachmen. These were the mass of Bretons that were driven from their home in Markarth by Ulfric Stormcloak. They now lived off the land and spent their lives trying to take back the hold.

And, crouching quite suspiciously near the edge of the Forsworn camp, Arlen saw Esbern and Delphine. Even as Arlen watched, a dragon landed directly in front of them. Another landed on one of the Dwemer structures, killing three Forsworn. A Hagraven, a terrible fusion of witch and bird, ran up the Dwemer stairs and attacked the dragon with claw and magic. Arlen pulled his new bow from his back, appreciating the quality of the glass weapon. Glass didn't seem a good idea when he'd originally seen the bow and arrows, but when Arlen first used it, it had been much, much better than his Elven bow. He fired on the dragon, but ended up killing the Hagraven instead. Delphine and Esbern had already weakened the other dragon, and it would only take a single arrow from Arlen to kill it. He did, then shot several Forsworn down. Now, only one dragon remained, being attacked by a dozen Forsworn.

Arlen killed two Forsworn, then fired several arrows into the dragon's head and neck. It breathed fire on the Forsworn, leaving only two survivors. Arlen killed the dragon with one final arrow. The Forsworn looked for the source of the arrows, and, much to Arlen's anger, found it. Arlen reached back for an arrow to kill one, but his hand met empty air. He was already out of arrows. He slung his bow over his shoulder, and slid into the valley. When he landed, he rolled and stabbed both remaining Forsworn.

Esbern and Delphine reached Arlen just as the dragon's flesh finished burning. Arlen's unbroken glass arrows fell to the rocks, and he began scavenging more from the Forsworn he had killed. Arlen managed to fill his quiver most of the way, but some of his arrows had broken on impact.

"That cave will lead us to Sky Haven Temple." Esbern pointed to the mouth of a cave across the valley. Arlen jumped from the raised Dwemer platform, and ran across the catwalks to the cave entrance. He crept into the cave, and found another Forsworn encampment. It consisted entirely of Briarhearts, who had traded their hearts for a source of great power. They had a weakness, though. Arlen exploited this. He crept through the shadows, right next to one. He cut the binds that kept the Briarheart in its owner's chest and pulled it out. The Forsworn fell dead, now missing his heart and his source of power. He repeated this process with the three others, and beckoned Delphine and Esbern. They followed him further into the cave, where he had to disarm several traps and lower several pathways. Finally, they reached a huge face set into the wall, and Arlen suddenly knew that it was the door into Sky Haven Temple. There was a chest several meters away, and in between the two was a large layered stone in the shape of a target.

"...blood seal." Arlen realized that Esbern had been speaking. "It will open the door, but is only activated by blood. Your blood, Dragonborn."

Arlen opened the chest, and, just his luck, pulled out an entire quiver of glass arrows. He managed to fit a few more into it, and replaced his old quiver with it. There was a large coin purse, but nothing else useful. Arlen dropped the purse into his Bag of Collecting, then slashed his palm over the blood seal. He never grimaced, never flinched. The only thing that gave away the discomfort he felt was the red that dripped from his fingers. As it hit the blood seal, all of the cracks in between the round stones lit up with white. The face swung inward, and Arlen passed through the opening it left. Time to figure out how to kill Alduin.

/\

Arlen stabbed the last Falmer, and moved through the passage. This was the moment he had been waiting for. There was an extremely large sphere of Dwemer metal in front of him, with stairs on the left side. Arlen started up these stairs, silent as usual, and placed his Dwemer Sphere on its pedestal. He then proceeded to push several buttons flanking the pedestal, until light finally hit a Dwemer lens. A container fell from the ceiling on silent hinges, and opened to reveal the Elder Scroll that Arlen had been waiting for. He took the Scroll and left the ruin.

/\

Paarthurnax was nowhere to be seen, so Arlen simply walked to the Word Wall and opened the Elder Scroll. Arlen's eyes burned with the strange patterns on the scroll, and they stayed with him even as he lowered the Scroll. Suddenly, the Throat of the World changed. It was nearly flawless, except for the several dragon corpses scattered across the snow. The Word Wall was no longer damaged, and three Nord heroes were standing in different places near it. Arlen turned around, and saw a dragon land lightly next to him. It ignored him, though, and it confirmed that he wasn't actually there. One of the heroes killed the dragon, and began talking with the other two. They spoke of Alduin and the very Shout Arlen needed to learn: Dragonrend. Arlen then saw one of the heroes pull out the very Elder Scroll Arlen had just read. The heroes argued for a moment, then one said, "Alduin approaches!" They used Dragonrend, and Arlen managed to learn each of the words as they were spoken. One of the heroes died, then another, so the oldest one pulled out the Elder Scroll. He read it, and managed to banish Alduin from the face of Nirn.

Arlen reappeared in the present, and the great World Eater hovered over him. Paarthurnax was there as well, and would no doubt help Arlen with his killing of Alduin. The dragon started to fly over Arlen, but he used Dragonrend.

"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"

Alduin spiraled to the snow, and the shockwave hurled Arlen down as well. He drew the Blade of Woe and Windshear, ready to kill Alduin the moment he regained his feet. Alduin managed to stand before Arlen, but couldn't fly. That was the point of Dragonrend. Arlen charged forward, and slashed at Alduin several times. The dragon's hide was thick, though, and the blades didn't penetrate. Arlen went for weak spots, such as the wings, underside of the jaw, inside the mouth, pads of the feet, ear holes, and eyes. Nothing worked. Alduin simply moved at the last moment, leaving Arlen's blades skidding off his thick scales. Finally, Arlen managed to stab Windshear in between two neck scales, all the way to its hilt. Alduin bucked, and Arlen was thrown to the snow again. Windshear was still in Alduin's neck, and Dragonrend had worn off. Now, both Arlen's target and his sword took to the sky. Paarthurnax fought Alduin for a moment, before Arlen managed to use Dragonrend again. He spiraled to the snow once again, and Arlen immediately jumped onto his head. He bucked again, though, and Arlen flew through the air. He lost his grip on the Blade of Woe, and it spun away off the mountain. Arlen would never be able to find it again, and the loss was an angering one.

Arlen hit the snow, rolled, and charged back at Alduin. He reached to the small of his back, drawing the four-inch spare dagger there. It was straight halfway up the blade, then it curved ninety degrees for the rest of its length. It wasn't a great weapon, but it would do in this situation. Arlen jumped to Alduin's head again, and buried the dagger in the dragon's eye. He reared, and Arlen dropped to the snow again.

"You have become strong, Dovahkiin. And yet, not strong enough!" Alduin took off, and flew into the distance. Arlen shouted after him, but Dragonrend didn't reach the rapidly fleeing shape. Arlen cursed, and paced angrily.

"Do not despair, Dragonborn." Paarthurnax landed next to Arlen. "We can find him."

"I would need a lieutenant of his, or perhaps a priest that could tell me." Arlen knew that he couldn't get either of those alive, and the priest couldn't even speak.

"The lieutenant may be easier than you think. Dragonsreach, the palace below, was made to house a dragon. You could call for him, and capture him for information."

Arlen liked the idea, but he wasn't sure if the Jarl of Whiterun would. He didn't really care.

"Where do I begin?"

/\

Arlen entered Dragonsreach. The Jarl sat up straighter, greeting him warmly.

"Thane! Or, should I call you Dragonborn?"

"Perhaps," Arlen said, "just Arlen." He reached the Jarl's throne. He cut straight to the point. "I need to trap a dragon in your palace."

Balgruuf frowned. "I'm not sure I heard you right. You said-"

"I need to trap a dragon in your palace."

"Ah. With war on my doorstep, I'm afraid I can't allow that."

"No, you don't understand-"

"You don't understand!" The Jarl raised his voice some. "I will not allow a dragon to burn my city and-"

"NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Arlen roared. He had unconsciously drawn his spare dagger and leveled it on the Jarl's throat. "Alduin, World Eater has returned! _He_ will be the one to burn your hold! _He_ will be the one to slaughter its people! _He_ will consume all of Nirn unless I can get his lieutenant here. That can't happen unless _you_ get your selfish head away from your palace and your riches and allow me to save them!" It was only then that Arlen realized that he had drawn a weapon, and everyone in Dragonsreach had done the same. Four guards flanked him, their swords poking out from the edges of their shields. Irileth had her sword out, casually by her side, and held lighting ready to throw at Arlen. Hrongar had his great sword over his shoulder, prepared to cleave Arlen in two. Farengar had come out of his side room, and now held fire in one hand and lightning in the other. Even Proventus held a dagger by his side.

Two guards stepped forward, leveling their swords at Arlen's throat. Irileth joined them, stepping in between Arlen and Balgruuf.

"Put down the weapon."

"I can't. You need to know exactly how KRII!" A ring of purple flew forth from Arlen's mouth, and seemed to wrap around Irileth. She staggered backward and fell, sitting on the Jarl's lap. Arlen tore the spare dagger's sheath from the small of his back and used it and the dagger to deflect both the guard's swords. He then used the metal sheath as a fistpack, punching one guard in the face. His helmet bent and warped, then flew off his head, leaving the guard's skull crushed. He then slashed the throat of the other guard, and both fell in unison. He dispatched the other two guards just as easily, and threw Hrongar onto a table. The table collapsed. Proventus tried to kill Arlen with his dagger, but was disarmed. He wasn't skilled with his weapon of choice. A fireball from Farengar flew past Arlen's nose, so he turned toward the wizard.

"FUS RO DAH!"

Farengar flew backward, and slammed into his desk. The desk collapsed, leaving the wizard mostly unconscious. Arlen turned to find Irileth, Balgruuf, and Hrongar approaching with swords drawn. Balgruuf signaled his to bodyguards to stop, and began speaking.

"Do not-"

Arlen interrupted him. "When I return here, it will mean the death of one of us." He sheathed his dagger and turned to leave. "And I do not die easily," he shot back over his shoulder. Arlen walked from Dragonsreach and prepared for his departure to Windhelm.

He was about to become a Stormcloak.


	5. Chapter 5

Arlen grabbed the Ice Wraith out of the air, summoning fire to his hand. It melted almost instantly, and was left as a rapidly freezing puddle at Arlen's feet. He mounted Shadowmere again, and they rode off back to Windhelm. When they reached the gates, the guards nearly didn't open the gate, saying something about no horses in the city. Arlen stared them down for a few moments, though, and they opened the gates. Arlen rode Shadowmere through Windhelm to the massive doors of the Palace of the Kings, where he refused to dismount once more. They opened the doors after a few minutes of arguing, and he rode Shadowmere straight to Ulfric's side, where he finally left the saddle.

"The ice wraith is dead." The statement was addressed to Ulfric's senior lieutenant, Galmar Stone-Fist. He had been the one who'd sent Arlen out to kill the Ice Wraith, in order to prove his worth in the Stormcloak ranks.

"Well then," Galmar replied, "it seems I owe Ulfric a drink."

"So," Arlen said, mildly annoyed and greatly amused, "you sent me out there to die?"

"No," Galmar answered instantly. "I sent you out there to prove your worth. Whether or not I _expected_ you do die is a different matter. It doesn't matter, now. Are you ready to take the Oath?"

"Oath?"

"Yes, the Oath by which every Stormcloak swears. It's essentially swearing fealty to Ulfric and the Stormcloak cause."

"All right." Arlen stood expectantly.

Galmar handed him a piece of paper, and asked him to read it aloud.

Arlen read through it quickly, then spoke aloud, looking Ulfric in the eye. "I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim. As Talos is my witness, may this Oath bind me to death and beyond, even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!"

"Very well," Galmar said. "You're a Stormcloak now, you may as well look the part." He handed Arlen a pile of clothing. There were fur boots and gauntlets, scale-mail armor, and a blue surcoat. Arlen recognized that the uniform was of much lower quality than his Dark Brotherhood armor, but he decided he'd wear it anyways. As Galmar had said, he was a Stormcloak and may as well look like one.

"Okay, now, Galmar," Ulfric said. "Tell me again why we're wasting time and dwindling resources chasing a legend. We don't even know it exists!"

"The Jarls don't all support you. They demand the Moot," Galmar said. The Moot was the process of electing a High King based on the opinions of the Nine Holds.

"Damn the Jarls, and Damn the Moot!" Jarl Ulfric shouted. "You would risk that fool Elisif on the throne? She would hand Skyrim over to the Elves on a silver plate!"

"All the more reason, then. Get the Jagged Crown. It hails from a time before Jarls and moots! It is from a time where kings were kings because their enemies fell before them and their lands flourished!"

"Are you certain you've found it?" Ulfric seemed to be coming around.

"I've found it."

"Fine," Ulfric looked at Arlen. "You'll be going with him, Unblooded." Arlen saluted by patting his chest with his right hand. He then unbuckled his Elven dagger from his belt and dropped it into his Bag of Collecting. Galmar looked from Arlen to the equipment table in the room, then back to Arlen.

"Take a sword, if you need one, Unblooded. And trust me, you need one."

Arlen approached the table. There were iron weapons, steel weapons, even a few Dwarven weapons. No Elven ones, though. Arlen picked up a Dwarven sword and buckled it to his belt.

"So, where's this Jagged Crown?"

/\

Arlen trudged through the snow, basically oblivious to the cold. He had changed into his Stormcloak gear, and was ready to go get the Jagged Crown. When he reached Korvanjund, the resting place of the Jagged Crown, he saw a small force of Stormcloaks hiding nearby. As he approached, he heard a familiar voice.

"So, you survived."

Arlen looked up and saw him. Ralof, one of Ulfric's higher ranking soldiers, and the Stormcloak who had sat across from Arlen on the way to Helgen.

"I had a feeling you'd join up," Ralof said cheerfully. "We'll take back Skyrim together, eh?" Arlen nodded and turned to Galmar.

"I'm ready."

"Then let's do this!" Galmar drew his battle-ax and charged toward the ruins. Imperials yelled, swords were drawn, and Arlen dropped into the middle of it all. Two Imperials attacked him at once, one from a distance and one via melee. He blocked and parried, dodged, and finally kicked the melee one into the path of an arrow. He fell, and Arlen looked up toward the archer.

"ZUN!" A small, almost unnoticeable ring of blue light flew toward the archer, catching him in the shoulder. His arm whipped backward, and his bow was hurled against a stone where it shattered. A split second later, three arrows slammed into him, pinning him to a wooden beam behind him. As Arlen looked at the Imperial archer, he had a sudden flash of anger and resentment. The world around him flickered, and he was suddenly somewhere else.

 _The pine tree swayed with the wind, and the old man along with it. Dozens of arrows pinned the black-robed man to the tree, and the Penitus Oculatus simply laughed. Arlen roared, confused and enraged that they had returned to ridicule his fallen friends. He stormed between them, slicing them from head to toe in a series of deadly cuts. They screamed and fell. Suddenly, voices erupted from nowhere, and Arlen was jolted back to Korvanjund._

Galmar shook Arlen. He opened his eyes, and realized he had just butchered three Stormcloak archers who had killed an Imperial. Galmar looked concerned, which wasn't something Arlen would associate with the old bear.

"Are you well?"

"No... yes." Arlen decided that he was. "Flashback from... from an earlier battle." Galmar nodded understanding.

"I can't tell you how many of those I've had."

/Him\

Couldn't remember any except this tomb, this throne, and the endless waiting. Oh, the waiting. And yet, nobody came.

Until now.

Someone was here. He stood, opened His eyes. The intruders attacked, but He attacked right back. He felled two before His assistants came to help. But it was too late. The Great One was here. The one with the power. The Great One destroyed His assistants, then turned to Him. He tried to fight back, but in the end the Jagged Crown was taken from his head by force. With the great helm taken form His head, He felt a weight taken from his shoulders. Unfortunately, His mind was also put at ease, and He became as mindless as His assistants.

/Arlen\

Arlen stabbed the Draugr, and let his sword go down with it. The Draugr's sword was of Ebony, and would serve Arlen much better. He picked it up, then turned to Galmar.

"Take that to Ulfric. Tell him he owes me a drink. We'll stick around here and see what else useful we can find." Arlen nodded and moved toward what he hoped was the exit, donning the Jagged Crown and planning a theatrical entrance to the Palace of the Kings. Then he heard something familiar. A sort of chanting in an ancient language. He could make out the word "Tiid" every once in a while, and he started to understand it. Time. It would allow him to manipulate time to his advantage.

Arlen spotted the Word Wall and approached. The chanting grew louder, and one of the words began to glow. Arlen read the word, "Tiid," and understood it completely. He used one of his captured Dragon Souls, unlocking the slain dragon's life force and knowledge as the Graybeards had told him to do. He then tested out his new Shout.

"TIID!" Time bent around him, slowing to a crawl. Arlen wasn't as affected by this, though, and could now move slightly faster than all around him. He jumped and climbed, sprinted toward the exit, but then stopped when he found himself at the entrance. There were two Stormcloaks here guarding it, and they might be fun to scare. Arlen snuck up behind them, waited for power to return to his throat, and... "TIID!" Time slowed again, and the Stormcloaks whirled around at very low speeds. Arlen instantly dove, rolling between them silently, and sprinted toward the exit. He closed the doors just as the Stormcloaks turned back, and listened through the small crack between them.

"What was that?!"

"I don't know, but let's get out of here before it kills us!"

Arlen ducked aside just as the two Stormcloaks burst out of the old ruin and simply jumped from the stone ledge the entrance was on instead of taking the stairs. Both fell too hard and died. Arlen panicked, took two arrows from an Imperial archer, and fired one into each body. _Let Galmar blame the Imperials instead of me,_ he thought, and ran off toward Windhelm.

/\

When Arlen reached Ulfric's throne, he was ready to drop. The Jagged Crown seemed fifteen times heavier than it was when he'd set out. He'd run the whole time, but that shouldn't have been a problem normally. It seemed the weight on the shoulders of a king was literal. When he handed the crown to Ulfric, he took it as if it were no lighter than paper.

"You..." Arlen took a moment to recover, then straightened. Now that the Crown was out of his possession, he was back to his previous optimal fitness. "You owe Galmar a drink."

"Yes, it seems I do. But first, I have a task for you. I need you to go to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. Give him this." Ulfric handed Arlen an axe from his side. Arlen was a Nord, and he knew the old customs. An axe was a choice. Whiterun was neutral, and the axe offered its Jarl a sort of council at a distance. If he kept the axe, it meant he would consider some sort of peace or alliance, and would return the axe later with a message. If he returned it immediately, it meant he had made his choice, and it was against the original owner of the axe.

"Should I say anything to him?" Arlen knew that sometimes an axe came with a question or a demand.

"No, he knows what I have to say." Ulfric seemed absent as he donned the Jagged Crown. It was fitting.

"Understood." Arlen turned to leave, but then turned back. "I should tell you something."

"I thought I gave you something to do?" Ulfric asked.

"Yes, well this is related. I had a bit of a... feud with Balgruuf."

"What kind of feud?"

"Let me put it this way. I may have to kill him."

/Jarl Balgruuf the Greater\

Balgruuf looked up as the doors opened. Irileth looked as well, and both frowned simultaneously. Irileth and Hrongar drew their swords, and Proventus stepped between the door and the Jarl with his dagger in hand. He'd been practicing for several days, now, and may be able to hold his own better. Farengar stepped from his side room and summoned a fireball to his hand. Balgruuf himself stood as well, letting his hand fall on the hilt of his own sword.

This was all an under reaction as it was, though, for at the door was Arlen Shadowcloak, the Dragonborn and a bitter enemy of Balgruuf.

"What is the meaning of this? You wish to-" Irileth started, but then everyone realized that Arlen wasn't in any sort of threatening position. He was wrapped in a black cloak with the hood up, and he walked slowly but surely. On his waist was an empty sword scabbard, though there was no doubt that he was armed. Everyone was on guard as he approached the throne and threw back his hood.

"I come with a message." Without any more information, he pulled an axe from under his cloak and handed it handle-first into Balgruuf's hand.

"It's from Ulfric Stormcloak."

/Arlen\

Arlen dropped the cloak altogether, revealing that the empty sword scabbard did not mean he was unarmed. His chest was covered with rows of daggers, and he had two short swords crossed on his lower back. On each of his shoulders was a small knife, as well as three around his wrists. Two dagger hilts protruded from each of his boots, one inside and one outside. On his thighs were two more daggers, as well as his upper back.

He bristled with knives and daggers and swords, and it was distracting enough that nobody noticed his lack of armor. He still wore Stormcloak attire, but none of the armor. He wore brown gray pants and a white long-sleeved tunic, with brown fur-lined boots and gloves and a blue surcoat. He had realized the potential in going armor-less awhile ago. Even when he wore it, his armor never took any sort of beating. He always dodged strikes or deflected them with his blade, and the armor would simply slow him down. The bit of extra speed without armor was far more effective than the bit of extra protection with it.

Arlen stood with his hands hovering near some of his daggers while the Jarl argued with his advisors. A guard stepped forward cautiously.

"Sir, I'm going to need your weapons to be-"

Arlen drew two daggers and threw them point-blank into the guard's chest, sending him back a few feet to land flat on his back. Blood crept from under his lifeless form.

"I may have a temporary messenger truce with the Jarl," Arlen reminded the group, "but I will kill any of the rest of you at the slightest provocation!"

A second guard who'd been approaching backed up quickly.

Arlen continued listening to the Jarl's conversation.

"Lord, wait. We should see if Ulfric is serious," Proventus was saying.

"Oh, he's serious. But so am I." Balgruuf now had a determined look on his face.

"Finally," Irileth said.

"You can return this axe to our friend. The esteemed Jarl of Windhelm has my answer. Make sure he gets it." Balgruuf handed the axe back to Arlen. "Oh, and Dragonborn?" Balgruuf said, "the moment you step outside the palace, our feud is continued. To not presume to walk in here safely again." Arlen nodded with a slight smirk, then spun on his heel and left. Just before he reached the door, though, he turned back round. Three guards stood there, escorting him out with swords drawn.

"Provocation," Arlen pointed out, and threw a knife into each of their chests. The Jarl stood, clearly annoyed with this behavior. Even though they were several dozen feet apart, Arlen threw two daggers. They caught the Jarl's robe, pinning him to the back of his throne in an awkward half-stand that would hurt his legs in only a few seconds.

"You've reached the end of my patience, and my temper!" Irileth shouted as she charged forward. Arlen waited, having drawn one of his short swords in his right hand and one of his daggers in the left. Irileth reached him and went for a charging thrust. Arlen deflected the blade across his body and let Irileth's momentum carry her into his dagger. She choked, then again.

"And you've reached the end of mine," Arlen said calmly and quietly, then let go of the dagger. Irileth fell to her knees, shuddered, and fell dead on the wooden floor. Hrongar charged forward, then, followed closely by Proventus and Farengar. Arlen drew another dagger, and waited for them. When Hrongar reached him, he tried for an overhead swing. Arlen deflected it into the floor, then stabbed the dagger under Hrongar's chin. Proventus came forward, then, and was immediately decapitated. Farengar's fireball singed the air next to Arlen's ear, and he lifted his blade. A second fireball slammed into the short sword and exploded. Arlen flicked his sword, letting the remaining sparks and smolders fall from the blade. He then sheathed his sword and drew two daggers. The first was thrown, intercepting a third fireball. The second stayed in his hand, though. He opened the door to the palace, closed it, and stabbed a nearby post. It meant a war in High Rock, and Arlen considered this a war.

Now was the time to take the city, then the Jarl's life.

/\

Stormcloaks fell left and right, and somehow Arlen was untouched. He stormed through the Imperials, slashing left and right. They all fell beneath his wrath, and yet there was still someone ahead of him, killing even faster. He looked, but all he could see was flashes of black and red. After a while, Arlen cut down an Imperial and found his stream of opponents had ended. Instead, there was a massive area of corpses. Each one had a rend across its front, the armor mangled and bloodied. No man had more than three cuts on him, and each was deadly. Ahead, the source of these deaths stood. It was a large shadowy demon at first glance, and Arlen actually stepped back. When he looks closely, though, it was just a large, muscular man in what Arlen recognized as the armor of the Daedra. It was made of the strongest metal known to civilization thus far: ebony. More than that, though, it was infused with the hearts of Daedra so it glowed from the inside. The Daedra Hearts had also had another effect on the armor. It was spiked and barbed and bladed, but in such a way that it looked magical and evil. No blacksmith could make that. The man's sword and shield were just the same. The sword was single-edged, and had sharp saw-like teeth in seemingly random places. The backside of the blade was that unnatural, un-makeable black material that glowed red from within. The crosspiece was the same, though the handle and pommel seemed normal ebony. The shield looked made entirely of the strange Daedric spikes, only with forged ebony plates between them. It was as much a weapon as Arlen's sword. Somehow, though, the helmet was the most striking of all of these features. It was spiked along the back in an uneven and demonic way, though the front seemed like a forgeable ebony helmet. The way it was made was just like the rest of the equipment: some terrifying junction between demon and human. It would have been very impressive if Arlen hadn't been sure he was about to die. Out of the pitch-black eyeholes glared pupil-sized blue lights.

After a moment, the Daedric armor-clad man approached Arlen. Arlen's throat tightened, but he raised his sword, determined to defend himself desperately. As the man approached, he raised the sword over his shoulder in preparation for a heavy overhead strike. At the last moment, though, the point of the sword found a scabbard on the man's back and slid into it. Arlen looked up, suddenly aware that he had fallen to his knees at the sight of this warrior. The man reached a hand down, and Arlen took it. He was helped up, but with such force he actually ended up a foot in the air. He landed, turned to face the great warrior, and nearly fell to his knees again. The warrior reached up and pulled off his helmet.

Somehow, the frightening air was gone. Now, Arlen found himself looking at a tall Redguard dressed in impressive armor. He had dark brown skin, deep, almost black eyes, a wide nose, a large mouth, and black hair braided in rows on the top of his head. Arlen's cold steel gaze returned, and his fear of the demon-man melted.

"Are you quite alright, friend? You look as though you've seen a ghost. Trust me, I know what that looks like."

"No, no," Arlen said. He had seen ghosts before, and they weren't as frightening as the full Daedric armor was. "I'm certainly not afraid of ghosts." To prove his point, Arlen summoned a ghost. It was the wraith of a long-dead Dark Brotherhood assassin, who Arlen had been given the power to summon a while ago. He then waved his hand again and the wraith disappeared. "Who are you?"

"Thammu," the Redguard said. "And you... Arlen, was it? Promoted to Stormcloak Officer, yet, Arlen?"

"No," Arlen said. He'd been promoted to something, _Ice-Veins_ , or something of the sort, but his only sign of rank was his enchanted Elven sword.

"Well," Thammu said, "we still have some Imperials to dismember, so why don't we get to it?" With that, Thammu re-donned his helmet and drew his sword. Arlen raised his own blade, and took off after Thammu's intimidating form. Thammu danced through Imperials effortlessly, and Arlen soon joined him. Arlen killed perhaps half the number of soldiers Thammu did, probably not even that. They were soon flying across the city toward the palace. Imperials scattered and fell before them, until they were at Dragonsreach's doors. Arlen pushed Thammu aside, and kicked them in. The Jarl and his wizard stood ready for him, and elements immediately flew toward him. Arlen sidestepped, throwing a dagger. Farengar fell back, dead, and Arlen charged forward. Behind him came in Galmar Stone-Fist, Thammu, and several of the Stormcloaks' best warriors. They yelled at him, "Stop," and "this isn't necessary," and "you don't have to kill him," but Arlen's head was filled with rage. It had been building since their original argument, though even that would've been enough to cause this battle. The Jarls ignorance and selfishness was angering beyond belief. Soon, Arlen and Balgruuf were locked in battle.

Arlen dodged left while Balgruuf stabbed. He ducked, slashed at the Jarl's shin, then rolled past the armored nobleman. Balgruuf spun around, slashed several times. Arlen blocked them, then stepped forward. Balgruuf blocked a stab, then a slash. Arlen danced around the Jarl, now determined to tire him out. The Jarl wore heavy armor while Arlen wore none, and he would soon be sluggish. It came sooner than Arlen thought. He switched directions, and a slow cut hit the floorboards. Arlen stepped on the Jarl's sword, then, and placed his sword against Balgruuf's neck.

"Well?" Balgruuf said. "I have no words for you."

"Nor I you," Arlen agreed, and cut off Balgruuf's head. Arlen spun around just as the other Stormcloaks finished with some soldiers.

"Why would you do such a thing?" On the word _do,_ Galmar smacked Arlen upside the ear. _Stone-Fist_ was an apt analysis. Galmar went in for another strike, but Arlen blocked it and kicked him back. Before the officer could recover, he found Arlen's blade at his throat.

"The feud may not have been ancient, but it was serious. It had to do with all of Nirn. Balgruuf was too ignorant and selfish to help save it." Arlen sheathed his sword, and turned away.

"Oh, and Galmar?" he said, turning back. "If ever you presume to raise hand or blade to me again, yours will be the head to topple."


	6. Chapter 6

**_Note:_** Please, if you don't know what the jester's outfit looks like from Skyrim, look it up now.

/\

Arlen sprinted forward. The Imperial swung his sword, but Arlen ducked under it. The Imperial lurched forward as Arlen's sword buried itself in his gut. Arrows flew around, and Arlen decided to get rid of their owners. He sprinted up a spiral of stone stairs, and found three archers raining arrows on the Stormcloaks, commanded by a man in heavy steel Imperial style armor with a red cape. Arlen stepped sideways, so he could see all of the archers, one behind another.

"FUS RO DAH!"

The nearest archer slammed into the next, and he into the last. All three tumbled from the tower to their deaths. The officer turned, dropped his cape, and drew his sword. Arlen charged at him, but his sword slammed into a shield. The officer spun, stabbing Arlen in his calf.

"Ha!" The officer laughed. "You truly believe you can beat the great Legate Octavian?" Arlen shrugged, casting a healing spell. The leg wound healed. Octavian tried to stab Arlen again. Arlen dodged the stab and sheared Octavian's shield in half. Now they were on even ground. Parry, thrust. Slash, swing, parry. Arlen wasn't even thinking about his moves. Octavian wouldn't really, either, but only because he was a legionnaire. Their fighting style was more like STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB! It worked well from behind a wall shield, but perhaps not with the sword alone. Arlen moved one of the thrusts upward, and stepped forward. Octavian was done giving ground, though, and they ended up nose-to-nose with their swords crossed between them. Arlen ripped a dagger from his belt and started to stab forward. Octavian apparently had the same idea. A small blade slipped between two of Arlen's ribs, and his own dagger entered Octavian's neck. The Legate dropped his sword, but Arlen didn't. Octavian used his last moments to yell and push forward. Arlen pushed back some, and beheaded Octavian before dropping his own sword. Still, he panicked when he felt stone battlements against the backs of his knees.

/Ralof\

Ralof spun through four Imperials, cutting off the heads of all of them with his axes. When he found no more enemies within reach, he looked around for Arlen in the dust. He'd been waiting for him to die. He didn't necessarily want him to, but he did expect him to.

Suddenly, someone yelled. Ralof looked up to the top of the nearest tower, and saw Arlen decapitate some officer. He continued to stagger, though, and flipped over the battlements. Ralof saw the hilt of a long dagger protruding from Arlen's ribs, and realized why there were massive amounts of blood trailing from him. Arlen flipped one more time, and Ralof saw the grim acceptance on his face. Finally, Arlen landed on a set of battlements, folding over them. There he stayed, his head hanging over one side of the battlements, feet over the other. The Dragonborn was dead, and Alduin wasn't.

In other words, farewell Nirn.

/Thammu\

Thammu finally found his shield, and was gratified to see that it wasn't damaged. He had lost it near the end of the battle, but hadn't had any time to recover it. Other than that, he'd only lost one other thing, the same thing everyone else in the Stormcloak army had lost: several great men accompanied by one exceptionally useful one. Arlen Shadowcloak was dead, and about to be burned under a shroud. He was last in line, after seven others. Three had already been burned, and the fourth was on its way by the time Thammu made it back to the fire. Because of the massive fire, he didn't notice how dark it was getting until he found he couldn't see anything beyond the glow of the flames. If he tried to look past them, all he saw was shadow upon a black canvas. He stared for several minutes, until he saw the last body being carried to the flames. He knelt, stuck his sword point into the ground, and closed his eyes. He'd been present for all of Arlen's great feats, and he always mourned the loss of a useful soldier, especially when that soldier had saved his life.

As Arlen burned, Thammu stood. The Stormcloaks turned to leave. Thammu stayed until the entire company was out of the fort before turning to leave himself. As he did, he couldn't help but think about how different Arlen's shroud-covered body looked than the rest.

/Kar'Viil\

The inn always had slow business, but this beggar was making it worse. He was dressed in what appeared to be a burlap sack, with his hands and feet bound in cloth. The only thing on him that didn't seem to fit was the pouch on his belt. First of all, the belt was of near perfect quality black leather, with a polished gold buckle and gold needle-thin designs along the entire thing. It looked like the belt a jester might wear. The pouch was of the same black leather, with the same style line work. Still, the beggar sat in the inn, apparently not having found any gold on the jester he'd probably killed.

Kar'Viil was a patient Khajiit, and he pitied the beggar. He decided to give him a bottle of ale every once in a while, and a piece of bread or cheese along with it. That had brought up another trait that seemed out of place. The beggar didn't eat as though he hadn't in a long time, didn't drain the ale like the drunk he likely was. And he didn't smell, as though he hadn't spent a great deal of his life without anything to his name.

Now, Kar'Viil sat wondering why the beggar still drove away business. He wasn't necessarily a negative presence.

"Who are you?" Kar'Viil asked for the eighth time.

Once again, the beggar responded with, "Nobody of consequence," and smoothed his pointed goatee. It was the only thing Kar'Viil could see under the shadow of the cloth hood the beggar wore.

"May I perhaps judge that for myself?"

"No."

Kar'Viil's tail flicked. "Tell me who you are."

"No."

"Then get out of my inn." It may have been an overreaction, but the lack of information was frustrating.

"No."

Kar'Vill drew his dagger and reached for the beggar's burlap shirt.

/\

Kar'Viil woke up. Everything was the same. He was still behind the counter, the beggar still on a barstool. He still cradled a tankard of ale, still hid his face with a cloth hood. Now, though, Kar'Viil was draped over the counter and had a massive headache. And he had a vague memory of an even greater, sharper pain that had been replaced by the headache. As he tried to get back on his feet, his knees buckled and he ended up on his back. Kar'Viil opened his eyes, and the beggar appeared next to him.

"Here," the beggar said. "Ale might help." With that, he trickled the mead into Kar'Viil's mouth. Instantly, the headache vanished. Kar'Viil swallowed a second time, and he noticed that he hadn't just consumed ale or mead. It tasted better, but was a more vague taste. It was the taste of a healing potion. The Khajiit stood up, and leaned against the counter.

"Who are you?" This time, Kar'Viil was asking out of awe.

/Ulagor Naybrak\

Ulagor wandered away from the corpse. He was old enough he wanted to die. He, unlike the other civilized races, didn't believe in living into invalidity. He would not become an ancient orc. He was searching for a good death.

"What are you doing?"

Ulagor turned and saw a beggar wrapped in cloth and burlap. He hadn't noticed the man before, and he noticed everything. He was a bit baffled, and it took him a moment to answer.

"Searching for a good death."

"What?"

Ulagor explained what he was doing. To his surprise, the beggar made an offer. "I could give you the death you seek."

"You think you could?" Ulagor was skeptical.

"Yes." The beggar sounded very confident.

"Alright, then let's go." Ulagor drew his axe and swung at the seated man. His axe met the dirt, though, and stuck there. He tried to pull it out, and the beggar's foot slammed into his elbow. Ulagor yelled as the joint shattered, and he let go of the axe. The beggar spun, pulling the axe from the ground with ease, and sung toward his head. He ducked, punched the beggar, and took his axe back. The beggar kicked the back of Ulagor's knee, but the orc had no idea how he'd ended up behind him. He felt his dagger slide from his boot, and found it at his throat.

"A good death."

And Ulagor's throat was cut.

/Adrianne Avenicci\

Adrienne looked up as the stranger entered Whiterun. She had the feeling she'd seen this man before. He was dressed in thick hide leg armor and a leather jerkin. He wore boots of the same thick hide, and cloth gloves. On his waist was an axe, and over his head was a cloth wrap that was worn like a hood. He was a bit pale, but it seemed he had been tan at some point in his life. He had a dense, wiry muscularity that made him look strong without being large.

The stranger approached Breezehome, which had been for sale only a week earlier. This man was similar to the buyer, but had a very definite difference. He seemed much more rugged, more wild. The original buyer had been a more sophisticated, classy soldier. Still, the forester pulled a key from his pouch and unlocked the front door.

"Hmm," Adrianne said. "Suppose he's just a scavenger."

/Cicero\

Cicero sat in Breezehome. He'd broken in at three o'clock in the morning to investigate the Listener's odd death. He had moved in close to his opponent and been stabbed. Cicero had fought alongside the Listener, and he was at his most effective close-up. The death didn't fit. Beside that, he had staggered and tripped over battlements. If anyone was light on their feet, it was the Listener. So, Cicero decided to investigate his home to see what was amiss. He saw that the Listener hadn't been wearing any of his normal armor. That shouldn't have been a problem. In fact, as far as Cicero could tell, nothing was out of place. The only thing he didn't expect to see was the hide-clad man in the doorway.

Hold on a moment.

Cicero jumped from the second floor overhang, rolled, and stood with his dagger up.

"Who do you think you are? This his the home of the Listener! You are not welcome here, worm!" Cicero then broke out into uncontrollable giggling. "I would love to slash and stab and cut and cut and stab, stab stab, stab stab!" Suddenly, he stopped. The man had removed his hood.

"Listener?"

"Yes, Cicero. I am alive."

/Arlen\

Arlen rebuckled the belt. He was now dressed completely in his Jester costume, ready to pretend to be a traveling jongleur. The last thing he needed was a suitable weapon. He turned, straightened his two-pointed hat, and walked out the door. To the left was Adrianne's forge. She was currently sharpening a nearly-finished sword. Arlen looked it over, and decided he liked what he saw. It was made of a steel-quicksilver composite, with a black leather-bound grip and a sharpened crescent-shaped pommel, like an axe blade. The blade was designed like a cutlass, but with a more shallow curve. The hilt was a bit longer than one-handed, and could be used with two hands for a powerful strike. The sheath was flexible black leather with a belt that could be attached to the back or the waist. Arlen decided that this was the perfect weapon for him.

Adrianne sheathed the sword, muttered, "Done," and hung it above her worktable on display. She turned away to grab a hammer, and Arlen strolled by. She turned back to find the sword missing, but when she looked around she couldn't find the thief. Arlen waited for her to grumble and restart the project, then slipped out from behind the barrel and left the city. He strapped the sword to his back, and took a test draw. The blade emerged from its sheath quickly and easily, leaving Arlen with a sharp, light, strong, well-balanced blade. He was quite pleased with Adrianne's work. He sheathed the sword, then started down the hill into the planes of Whiterun Hold. As he crested a hill and looked down at the shadows on the other side, he tried something he never had before. He concentrated, then let out a shrill whistle. The shadows filled in with a black inky liquid, and out climbed a horse of the same color.

"Hey, Shadowmere," Arlen said. He mounted the horse, and rode off toward the north west. He heard Cicero behind him, still dressed in his own jester's costume. The first town they would reach would be Morthal, then they would turn northeast and head for Dawnstar.

It was nearly an hour before they came across a group of Imperials. There were three of them, escorting a man in tattered clothing. Arlen assumed he was a Stormcloak prisoner. He jumped from Shadowmere and approached the prisoner. Stupid as they were, the Imperials simply told him off. Arlen cut the Stormcloak's bonds and turned to an Imperial. Before anyone could process what happened, Arlen drew an Imperial's sword from him and handed it to the Stormcloak. Finally, Arlen pressed his back against the Stormcloak's and drew his own sword. The Imperials unslung their shields and drew their swords, all except the one who'd gotten his stolen. He unslung a bow and backed away. He drew an arrow from his quiver, but was immediately cut down by Cicero. Both Imperials attacked Arlen at once. They apparently wanted the prisoner alive, and were confident in their ability to disarm him and continue the escort. Arlen had other plans. He deflected both blades upward, and kicked one Imperial onto his butt. The other stepped back on his own and charged forward again, sword out. Arlen was taller, and had a longer sword, though. His reach was significantly longer than the Imperial's. Arlen had only to put out his arm, and the Imperial impaled himself on Arlen's sword. The other Imperial regained his feet.

The Stormcloak spoke behind Arlen. "Relief!"

It was a common command in the Stormcloak army. Arlen and the Stormcloak linked arms, and the Stormcloak jumped. Arlen turned around, still carrying the Stormcloak, and the Imperial found that his jester friend was gone, replaced by a vengeful Stormcloak soldier. Arlen didn't even turn to watch as the freed prisoner beheaded the Imperial.

"Thanks," the Stormcloak said, and ran off to the east.

Arlen approached Cicero. "Get on Shadowmere."

Just as he said the name, Arlen found the black horse at his elbow. Cicero complied, swinging into Shadowmere's saddle with ease. Arlen jogged along behind as Shadowmere cantered into the salt marsh of Morthal. When they reached the city, Cicero grumbled about a "hellish wasteland." He dismounted and let Shadowmere crawl back into his black water, then pulled two items from his Bag of Collecting. One was a bright red lute, the other a strange black bag with a golden drawstring. The lute Cicero handed to Arlen, And opened the bag for himself. Out came black and red leather juggling balls. Knowing Cicero, Arlen figured they were probably steel or studded hardwood so they doubled as a throwing weapon. Also knowing Cicero, they probably weren't the only set. The bag was slung over Cicero's back, and he set to juggling. Arlen started playing the fast-paced fingerpicking riff for _Ragnar the Red_ he had learned in his youth, and they started into Morthal. Everyone perked up as they came in, and Cicero started singing.

 _Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead._

 _And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade, as he told of bold battles and gold he had made._

 _But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red, when he met the shield maiden Matilda who said..._

 _"Oh, you boast and you lie and you drink all our mead, now I think it high time that you lie down and bleed!"_

 _And so then came the clashing and slashing of steel, as the brave lass Matilda charged in full of zeal!_

 _And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no moore... when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!_

Arlen looked at Cicero in surprise. He hadn't known Cicero could sing at all, but here he was doing it better than any bard Arlen had ever heard. Not only that, but he had pulled out a fourth and fifth juggling ball while he sang, and hadn't skipped a beat in his juggling. As Arlen finished his lute riff, the crowd that had gathered around the two jongleurs cheered. Several gold coins were tossed to them, and Cicero caught all of them, continuing to juggle them along with his five leather-bound juggling balls. Arlen was confident in Cicero's ability, and so tossed the lute over. Cicero caught it seamlessly. Arlen then drew his sword and threw that. It spun end over end, split one of the coins, and continued along in the arc. Everyone broke out in cheering, seeming to forget their troubles for the moment. Finally, Arlen and Cicero stopped walking. Arlen started pulling random things out of his pack and throwing them to Cicero: a coin, a knife, a bracer, a rolled up pelt, a quill and ink bottle. Finally, he pulled out a shield and decided to stop. Cicero's arc of items was at least ten feet in the air, now.

Arlen wasn't confident in his own abilities, but he nodded to Cicero. An understanding passed between them. Cicero started throwing the items in a long arc toward Arlen, and he tossed them back. It was difficult to deal with the varying weights and shapes, but once he got the hang of it he was fine. After a moment of this, Arlen started juggling normally. The stream of items from Cicero ended, and an arc grew above Arlen. When Arlen almost dropped the bracer, he started throwing the items back to Cicero. Cicero caught them and started throwing them down. At the end, when Cicero only juggled the original five balls, the lute, and Arlen's sword, the other items had been formed into a pyramid. Cicero then threw the lute back to Arlen, stuck the sword into the peak of the pyramid, and let the juggling balls fall into a circle around it. The crowd roared, attracting some of the busier people from their houses.

Cicero started into a cartwheel, then stopped and did a backflip. To Arlen's trained eye, he landed perfectly, but then pretended to lose his footing and stumbled comically. The crowd laughed, especially when Cicero tried to get up and tripped Arlen as well. They continued to fall and stumble, then fell, rolled, and came up perfectly on their feet with a synchronized, "Hey!" They then skipped into an intricate partner-based acrobatic routine Arlen didn't know he could do. First, Cicero boosted Arlen into the air. There, Arlen flipped several times and landed on his feet... on the roof of a house. Arlen then jumped down, and Cicero stepped under him. Arlen's feet and Cicero's hands lined up, and they synchronized their movements. Cicero tossed something to Arlen with his teeth, and Arlen caught it. The thing unfurled, and Arlen found himself looking down at a giant jester. He and Cicero were now covered in a large suit that made them look like one person. There were wooden mechanisms attached to his arms, so the giant jester copied Arlen's arm movements. Cicero walked the giant jester forward, and Arlen swept it into a bow. The crowd cheered again, and the Jester dissolved.

Arlen pulled off his hat, dropped from Cicero's hands, and rolled to his feet. The hat fell into Cicero's waiting hands, and he tossed it onto Arlen's head. Coins jangled into Cicero's bag, and they moved on from Morthal. Everyone was left with a smile on their faces. Cicero mounted Shadowmere again, and they started off toward the northeast. The land slowly turned snowy, and Arlen knew they were almost to Dawnstar.

It was only an hour before they were attacked. They heard a roar, as if from a bear, and something like a heavy drumbeat. Arlen jumped up and pushed Cicero off the horse. Shadowmere disappeared, and Arlen dove under a rock overhang. Just as Cicero slid in next to him, a column of fire slammed into the overhang. It stopped and another roar sounded. This one didn't sound like a bear, because it was close enough to hear more clearly. It was more metallic, and much louder. The drumbeat was now an obvious wing flapping sound. As the dragon turned to circle back toward the overhang, Arlen charged out.

"FUS RO DAH!" The dragon ran right into the ring of force, and one of its wings was forced to its side. The dragon turned in the air and crashed into the ground, making a five-dozen foot long runnel in the snowy earth. Arlen ran along the runnel, then jumped onto the dragon's back. It bucked, but Arlen wouldn't be thrown off. He drew his sword and stabbed the dragon in the back of the long neck. Cicero appeared next to him, dropping next to the dragon's head. His dagger made a massive gash in the side of the dragon's head, blinding one eye. He then jumped up and stabbed the dragon under the chin. Arlen felt the dragon preparing to fly, so he chopped off its tail. It would be difficult to navigate without that. The dragon roared. His head reared back, and ran straight into Arlen's sword. Cicero scrambled out from under the dragon, sheathing his dagger, and watched as it burned. Arlen absorbed the dragon's soul, then used it to learn a new Word of Power.

"YOL!" Fire sprang from Arlen's mouth and melted the snow. Shadowmere reappeared out of his shadowy mere, and Cicero remounted. They continued their trek northeast, until finally they crested a hill and found Dawnstar laid out before them. Arlen took the lute out and started playing, while Cicero started his juggling. They walked into town the same way they had at Morthal, but this time didn't stop walking. They passed all the way through town, and circled the rock outcropping to the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary.

"What is the-"

"Innocence, my brother," Arlen interrupted the Black Door.

"Welcome home."

Arlen and Cicero walked inside the sanctuary, and immediately split up. Arlen went first to a shelf, where there were several sets of Dark Brotherhood armor. He changed into it, and turned to walk further inside. He was intercepted by Cicero, now also changed into Dark Brotherhood armor, and two dozen new Brothers.

"These are all that are ready," Cicero said.

"Then let's go."

/Thammu\

Thammu slung his shield and took off his helmet. Ulfric seemed to relax, along with the mass of Stormcloaks gathered around him.

"...So let's take the capital back from these milk-drinkers! For Skyrim!"

The other Stormcloaks took up the call. "FOR SKYRIM!"

Thammu, though, somehow louder than the rest, yelled something else. "FOR ULFRIC!"

The other Stormcloaks grinned at him and shouted the same thing. Thammu put on his helmet and unslung his shield, charging ahead of the main force of Stormcloaks. A volley of arrows rained down from the walls. Every Stormcloak raised his or her shield, and the arrows clattered away.

Suddenly, a strange, metallic echoing voice sounded. "FEED THOUGH FOOL!"

Thammu blinked and cocked his head. That was an odd war cry. Nonsense. Thammu wasn't sure he'd heard right. He thought perhaps the voice had shouted, 'tiid klo ul,' but that made even less sense than 'feed though fool.' After the half second of confusion, Thammu saw something. A black shape flew along the wall, moving so quickly it was more of a short streak. Just before it disappeared into a tower, it slowed down so it almost looked like a man. Just as it did, the Imperial archers flipped over the battlements and tumbled to the ground.

The Stormcloaks hesitated, but then Thammu rallied them. "For Ulfric and Skyrim!"

The cry was once again repeated, and the army charged toward the gate. When Ulfric reached it, he kicked it open. The Imperials hadn't barricaded it at all. The Stormcloaks poured into Solitude, and were met with a wall of Imperial shields. Ulfric was pushed back by one, but he channeled his Voice.

"FUS RO DAH!" Six of the men in the shield wall were hurled back. The Stormcloaks took this opportunity to make themselves into a wedge and drive into the gap in the Imperial rank. As the Stormcloaks charged ahead the Imperials were forced to either side, where they were slaughtered by Thammu. More Imperials came from various barracks, but they were few and far between. Arrows rained on the Stormcloaks from somewhere, and Thammu saw that a mass of archers had gathered on the roofs of every building in Solitude. Stormcloaks fell, leaving holes in the mass. Thammu ran to the nearest building, sheathing his sword and slinging his shield on his back. When he reached the building, he jumped, burying the spikes on his gauntlets into the wood. From there, it was a swift climb to the roof. When he reached the roof, he found the archers waiting for him. They had drawn swords, but Thammu didn't have time to do the same. Two blades swung at him at once. He dodged the first and slapped the second. A third came at him, so he grabbed its owner's wrist and hurled him from the high roof. The first two doubled back to attack Thammu again, but he managed to draw his sword. One blade was deflected, the other dodged as before. Both men were thrown off-balance, leaving Thammu free to behead both of them. Only two more archers remained on this roof, but they were still shooting. Thammu approached them, and kicked one off the roof. The other swung around to shoot him point blank, but he was run through and hurled to the ground. Thammu sheathed his sword and unslung his bow. The Imperials across the way still didn't see anything amiss. Thammu fired arrow after arrow at them, and each fell with one in their chest. Thammu slung his bow and jumped from the roof, then rolled and came to his feet. Several other Stormcloaks had fallen, but they still had a formidable force. Suddenly, the strange echoing voice sounded.

"FEIM ZII!" A ghostly man dropped from a rooftop, and landed in a roll. Several more shapes dropped, at least a dozen, but these ones weren't ghostly. Each landed on an Imperial soldier in the streets, then stood and whirled through the soldiers with daggers. Thammu recognized the armor of the Dark Brotherhood, though why they were here was beyond him. The ghostly-ness of the first man faded, and he started fighting with a scimitar. With the help of what appeared to be only a small part of the Brotherhood, they managed to destroy the current mass of Imperials. Thammu slid down the roof and managed to get back to ground level. He charged forward, and saw Ulfric well ahead of the main force of Stormcloaks. He was approaching the scimitar-wielding Dark Brother.

"Ulfric! Sir!" Thammu had to stop him. They didn't know why the Dark Brotherhood was here, but Thammu knew it wasn't to have a talk with Ulfric.

/Ralof\

Ralof was disappointed. He had been set to defensive duty in Morthal, in case Tullius escaped Solitude and tried to take it back. Ralof doubted the possibility, but he supposed it could happen. Just as he had the thought, a mass of Imperials charged in from the direction of Solitude. Tullius wasn't with them, but they might be able to take back Solitude later on. Ralof was one of only ten Stormcloaks on duty here, and they wouldn't be able to beat these thirty-odd Imperials without help. Suddenly, a dozen black shapes dropped from rooftops, each killing an Imperial in the center of the group. They all stood in unison and bloomed out like a flower, destroying the entire group. Ralof hadn't even drawn his hammer, and the Dark Brotherhood had already destroyed these Imperials and disappeared into the surrounding mist.

"What...?"

/Ulfric Stormcloak\

Ulfric reached the scimitar-wielding man. "Arlen? The Dragonborn?"

"Yes, sir!"

"You're of the Dark Brotherhood, eh?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Well, good thing you came to help."

Suddenly, a massive group of gold-clad warriors poured out of the alleyways of Solitude. The Thalmor had come to help. They flooded around Ulfric and Arlen, leaving them surrounded a bit separate from the other Dark Brothers. They then flooded around the mass of Stormcloaks. Now there were three separate groups of fighters in a mass of High Elves.

"So, you're a master of the Voice, yes?" Ulfric asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Then let's send these elf-witches back to their Embassy!"

They each took a deep breath, and Shouted.

"FUS RO DAH!"

/Arlen\

The Thalmor were blasted back, and both the Dark Brotherhood and the Stormcloaks sprang into action. They began fighting toward one another, and Arlen and Ulfric started to do the same. It only took a few minutes for them to have slaughtered a great number of Thalmor soldiers and met up with the other two armies. Now it was just one mass of blue- and black-clad fighters in the middle of an army of Thalmor. Arlen looked around.

"Come on..." he muttered to himself. Then he saw it. Dozens of flower petals were raining from the sky. They were all from a poisonous Nightshade flower, one of the symbols of the Dark Brotherhood.

"Attack!"

Cicero. The jester and his dozen Dark Brothers charged in behind the Thalmor, killing at least fifty before they knew what was happening. The Stormcloaks and other half of the Dark Brotherhood fanned out as well, and they managed to get out of the army. Now they had Dark Brothers on one side and Stormcloaks on the other. They both redoubled their charges, and crushed the Thalmor between hammer and anvil.

Arlen turned to the Dark Brothers. All had survived, but he didn't want to risk anything. "Dismissed!"

The Brotherhood filed out of the city, leaving just Cicero, Arlen, and the Stormcloaks. Cicero and Arlen started climbing up some walls, while the Stormcloaks traveled the roads to get to Castle Dour. They reached the castle at the same time, and Ulfric invited Galmar and Arlen inside to kill Tullius.

"Ooh! Cicero would like to come, too," Cicero said. "Would you deny killing to a poor fool such as myself?"

"You," Ulfric said, seeming to choose his words carefully. "give me a terrible feeling, jester. You may come in, if you're Arlen's companion."

"Oh, goody. Stab stab!"

/Tullius\

Tullius sat on the bench while Legate Rikke argued for him. Then, she drew her sword and attacked. Tullius stood and did the same. Rikke was immediately stabbed by the jester, and Tullius found a scimitar at his throat.

"Here," Ulfric said to the Dragonborn. "Use mine." The Dragonborn took the sword, and Tullius waited for death.

/Arlen\

Arlen killed Tullius, turned, and strolled out of Castle Dour.

/\

"Are you ready to spring the trap on the dragon?" Arlen asked Jarl Vignar Gray-Mane.

"Ready when you are. Just make sure you do your part."

Arlen jogged to the Great Porch, and saw the dragon trap. It was basically a large wooden bar that would fall on the dragon's neck, and two metal bits would close around its throat. Arlen jogged to the end of the great porch, and used the new shout he'd learned.

"OD-AH-VIING!" Instantly, the dragon glided toward Arlen. At the last moment, Odahviing snatched up a guard and dropped him toward the ground far below. Arlen used Dragonrend as soon as he could.

"JOOR ZAH FRUL!" The dragon crashed into the stone porch, and slid most of the way to the trap. Arlen pulled his bow from his back and fired at Odahviing. The dragon crawled forward to bite at Arlen, but the trap fell on him immediately.

/Thammu\

Thammu stood next to the pull chain for the dragon trap, ready to release it at Arlen's word. He gave it, and Thammu pulled the chain. The trap was released, and the dragon crawled to the end of the Great Porch, Arlen in tow. Thammu dropped down to wish Arlen well, but he was a bit too slow. He reached the dragon's tail as Arlen mounted, and Odahviing took off. His tail caught Thammu under the arm, and dragged him along behind for only a second or two. Thammu then came unstuck, and fell toward the Great Porch. He reached out to grab the edge, but missed, falling toward the ground many meters below.

"Oh, goody," Thammu said sarcastically. "All of those battles, and I die because-"

He hit the ground.


	7. Chapter 7

Arlen dismounted, and Odahviing took flight. Ahead, two dragons circled like vultures. Arlen, having re-donned his Dark Brotherhood armor, strolled forward spinning his sword. One of the dragons turned to glide toward him, and two heavily armed and heavily armored draugr ran at him from either side. He stabbed one draugr, kicked the other, and looked at the dragon.

"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"

The dragon flapped its wings desperately, but slammed into the ground. Arlen jumped onto its head, waited for it to buck once, and came back down with his scimitar at the base of the dragon's skull. It went still, and started to burn up, and Arlen felt the familiar sense of power as he absorbed its soul. Arlen dropped from the carcass and resumed his casual walk toward the now-visible stairs to the right. Two more Draugr appeared, charging down the stairs toward Arlen. They swung, but Arlen rolled under both swords and turned around.

"FUS RO DAH!"

The draugr flew from the raised stone platform and flew into a natural valley. Arlen turned back around and took the stairs three at a time. As he reached the top, the second dragon landed. He charged at it, slashing and stabbing wildly. The dragon bit at him, but each one missed. Arlen rolled under the dragon's head and another bite, and stabbed his sword all the way through its head. Once again, the dragon started to burn up and Arlen absorbed its soul. As he jumped off the dragon, three draugr appeared. He beheaded one, stabbed the second, and slashed at the third four times. When Arlen recognized no more immediate threats, he cut left into a ruined tower.  
A strange barking growl sounded from a draugr. As soon as one appeared in the doorway, Arlen used the two new words he'd learned.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!"

The draugr's eyes lost their glow, and it blackened and flew backward. Arlen jogged from the tower, turned left, and charged up another staircase. He rolled his eyes as two more draugr appeared. He was getting very annoyed with these bone-walkers. He cut them down with ease, and opened the heavy iron door before him. Once inside the temple, Arlen saw a large stone block with lit braziers on either side. To the right was an altar with ancient embalming tools on top. Arlen passed the right side of the large stone block, and saw a dark shape in the dusty air ahead. He cut the draugr aside and started a fight with a second. This one had the first swing, and it grazed Arlen's shoulder. Luckily, the blade glanced off one of the studs on Arlen's armor. He swung back at the draugr, but the blade was deflected. Arlen was by far the superior swordsman, though, and spun to behead the draugr.

Arlen looked around, and walked up the next staircase. At the top he saw three puzzle pillars and a lever, surrounded by several draugr. The first one saw him, turned, and fired a bow. Arlen dove aside... right into the arrow's path. It would have missed had Arlen not tried to dodge. As it was, he ended up with the arrow all the way through his thigh. He scrambled to his feet and charged forward. The other four draugr joined the fight. Two more arrows flew past Arlen, and three swords were deflected away from Arlen. The first warrior was cut in half, the second run through. One of the archers accidentally killed the third swords-draugr, leaving Arlen free to kill the archers in one wide slice. Next, Arlen sheathed his sword and turned his attention to the pillars. On each was a snake, a fish, and a bird. On the left wall, right next to the far left pillar, was a fish. On the right, a snake. Arlen turned the respective pillars so that the snakes were facing each other and the fish were facing each other. He then looked around. There were two gates ahead. One had a bird above, the other a snake. He turned and spun the middle pillar so it was a bird, and pulled the lever. The bird gate opened, and Arlen found a dead end. He turned the middle one so it was a snake instead, then pulled the lever again.

The snake gate opened, and Arlen walked through it. Before him was a staircase. He walked up it and turned left, killed two more draugr, and dropped into a chamber. Three more draugr kicked open their caskets and charged. They were cut down, and Arlen looked around. One of the caskets had no back, but led into a tunnel. Arlen's way was partly blocked by cobwebs from a frostbite spider, so he cut them away. As Arlen continued through the tunnel, he saw several of the giant arachnids waiting for him. They were caught unawares, and were killed before they could get their bearings. To the right was a web-covered doorway with another giant spider behind it. Arlen cut the webs aside, then the spider. To the left were some stairs, then a right turn and two more spiders, these ones larger than the others. Arlen took several strikes each to kill the spiders, then opened an ironbound door beyond.

Directly ahead was a large raised stone platform with a pillar in it. To the right were some wooden stairs, and Arlen heard more draugr. He killed them, and looked around. At the top of the stairs to the right was another pillar, and across the raised platform was a third. Above the one to the right was a bird, and Arlen spun the pillar so the bird faced outward. The one on the other side was a fish, and Arlen put the fish outward. He then dropped from the platform, and looked around some more. On the side of the platform opposite the pillar was a snake. Arlen jogged around the stone block and spun the last pillar. He then proceeded to pull the lever on top of the stone platform and waited for a wooden bridge to fall into place. Beyond that was another ironbound door. With one last look around, Arlen opened it.

After a few more draugr, Arlen made it to the part he'd been dreading: the Hall of Stories. If he didn't have a dragon claw to open the puzzle door, he'd have to turn back. Apparently, that wasn't an option. A draugr, dual-wielding an ebony mace and sword, charged at him. He dodged several swings, ducked, and tackled the draugr with his blade out. His sword got stuck in the draugr's chest armor, but it wouldn't matter. The ebony sword, as old as it was, was much better quality than his own. He took it and a dragon claw he found on the draugr's belt, and approached the puzzle door. He looked at the claw, twisted the rings, and walked into the room. At the end of a short corridor was a Word Wall, which would teach him a new Word. As he got closer, he heard a slow, disembodied chanting of the Shout he was about to learn. _Strun bah qo, strun bah qo, strun bah qo_. He read the glowing words, learned _strun_ , and circled the Word Wall. Behind it was a door with cold emanating from it. That would lead outside.  
Instantly, Arlen was charged by two more draugr. He waited for them to be directly in front of him, then breathed in.

"FUS RO DAH!" The now-familiar ring of energy flew from Arlen's mouth, and hurled the draugr off the stone platform they were on. Arlen walked to the edge and looked down. Far below, to the west, was Skyrim. Just below and to the left of Arlen was Riften, but he was high enough he couldn't see its massive expanse. More than two hundred feet below was the door he'd used to get into the temple, and the courtyard nestled into the mountains. To the left was a staircase. Arlen took the stairs two at a time, then skidded to a stop.

Dragon Priest.

Arlen had only come across one other Dragon Priest, and he'd nearly died. He hadn't even killed the thing before he'd had to run. He'd then had to drain his supply of healing potions. Now, he didn't have as many healing potions. He slipped forward silently, hoping for a stealthy approach. The Dragon Priest floated up some more stairs to a receptacle, and took a staff from it. He turned half around, but Arlen was already right next to him. Before the Priest could turn, his head was severed. The Priest burned from within, leaving a pile of ashes, a staff on the steps, and a very powerful mask flying through the air. Arlen caught it, letting the brown leather hood fall away from it, and fitted it over his face. He felt his magical energy soar, even though he never cast spells. Thusly equipped, he picked up the staff and looked down from the receptacle platform. Below was what looked like a shattered circle of stone. The shards, though, were floating and spinning in rings well below. A pillar of light shot from the seal. When Arlen stuck the staff back into its receptacle, the shards stopped spinning and formed a staircase. Arlen dropped to the top step, and started downward. Just before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he seemed to fall into nothingness.

/\

When Arlen finally decided to open his eyes, he found himself on solid ground. He was on a stone platform with stairs leading down. From there, it just looked like a normal road in the middle of Skyrim. The only real differences were the fog, the sky, and the statues. The fog was thick, impossibly thick. The sky was a swirling pink-and-purple vortex with a central white light. The statues looked like Graybeards, except ten times as large as the real thing and much less lifelike. Every one of them seemed as though they were looking straight at Arlen. He looked to his feet and ran down the stairs, then started to jog along the path. The mist parted before him, but redoubled its thickness behind. After only a few minutes, he heard a familiar roar: Alduin's. He stopped and drew his sword, looking around in the sky. He didn't see Alduin, but he saw something much more unsettling. Every Graybeard statue had turned silently, and were still looking at him.

"Turn back!"

Arlen's heart leapt into his throat, and he swung his sword. It ended up shearing the front of the soul of a Stormcloak soldier. Just before he died, Alduin swooped down and snatched him up. The tortured scream from the soldier made Arlen's blood go cold. He continued through the mist, his sword ready and his heart beating five times as fast as it should. After a minute or two, he saw Legate Rikke sitting on a fallen tree. She looked up at him, stood as though ready to fight, and was picked up by Alduin. Just a bit further, Arlen saw a touching scene. He recognized Thammu, the great Redguard who'd helped with the Skyrim civil war. He was standing back-to-back with an older man, both with their swords drawn. As Arlen neared, he recognized someone he'd only ever seen in paintings: Kodlak White-Mane of the Companions. Thammu and he were talking.

"...yes, I sacrificed the Blood of the Wolf. I wished to spend eternity with you, sir." Thammu was saying.  
Kodlak smiled half-heartedly. "I am touched, though I am not so sure our eternity will not be at the mercy of Alduin. Who have you chosen to become Harbinger of the Companions?"

Now it was Thammu's turn to smile, though his was wistful. "Well, sir, I wished to appoint a soldier I met during the Civil War for Skyrim. He fought with ferocity unmet by any except myself and you. I learned later that he was the Dragonborn of legend. He alone subdued a dragon and forced it into submission. With the Companions at his back, he'd be unstoppable. I think..." Thammu's voice trailed off as he saw Arlen.

"You!" He said. Then he smiled and rushed forward. Arlen smiled as well while Thammu grasped him by the shoulders. He looked back to Kodlak, then, and laughed heartily.

"This is the one. He would be my replacement."

Kodlak nodded. "I trust your judgement-" He was swept up by Alduin. Arlen couldn't let that happen.

"FUS RO DAH!" The ring of energy slammed into Alduin, and he spiraled to the ground. Kodlak tumbled from his grasp, and Thammu sprinted forward. He dove underneath the falling man, and acted as a cushion. Kodlak stood and looked to Arlen.

"You... Dragonborn. You saved my life. You have chosen well, Thammu."

"With your consent, I shall proceed. Dragonborn, Arlen. I hereby appoint you the Harbinger of the Companions of Whiterun!"

"Thank you, Thammu. Allow me to escort you to the Hall of Shor." Arlen led them back to the path, and started along the road toward the large fortress in the distance. Finally, they reached a clearing in the mist, and saw a man, at least eight feet tall, standing outside wearing only leg armor. Kodlak and Thammu passed by him without incident. As Arlen approached, though, he was stopped.

"What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honored dead?" He asked.

"Who are you?" Arlen asked.

"I am Tsun, Shield-Thane to Shor. The Whalebone Bridge he bade me guard and winnow all those souls whose heroic end sent them here, to Shor's lofty hall where welcome, well-earned, awaits those I judge fit to join that fellowship of honor. But I am not on trial. You are. Why do you tread here, in this misty heaven for all?" The Whalebone Bridge was aptly named. It looked as though it was made of the backbone of a whale, and would be treacherous to cross. At least a a thousand feet below the bridge was an endless ocean. Across was the Hall of Valor, of Shor. It was lofty and exactly as Arlen imagined it. Black steel with red windows and doors. Although, that was quite obviously the effect of the Hall of Valor. It is seen as each hero wants to see it.

"I seek entrance to the Hall of Valor."

"No shade are you, as usually here passes, but living, you dare the land of the dead. By what right to you request entry?"

Arlen straightened, ready to state his right as the Listener for the Night Mother, when Kodlak appeared behind Tsun.

"By right of glory. He leads the Companions of Jorrvaskr."

"Ah," Tsun said. "I welcome the chance to challenge the blade of Ysgramor's heir, shield-brother to Kodlak. But none may pass this perilous bride until I judge them worthy by the warrior's test."

"Then let's go." Arlen drew his sword, and breath for a Shout.

Tsun beat him to it. "FUS RO DAH!" But Tsun was not Dragonborn. His Voice was not as strong as Arlen's. He staggered, sure, but came back swinging. Tsun blocked the first two hits with his battle-ax, but the third, fourth, and fifth landed. Tsun swung once, but Arlen ducked and Shouted.

"FUS RO DAH!" Tsun staggered as well, and Arlen stabbed him in the chest. His sword flew back out, and Tsun's wounds healed themselves.

"You have fought well, Harbinger. I deem you worthy."

Arlen nodded and stepped onto the first of the whale ribs. He was surprised none of them broke as he walked. When he reached the other side of the bridge, he released a breath he didn't know he was holding. The red glass doors loomed in front of him. He opened the door, walked inside, and let it slam behind him. Inside, he was greeted by the legendary Ysgramor, first harbinger of the Companions.

"Welcome, Dragonborn. Our door has stood empty since Alduin set his soul snare here, Kodlak and Thammu were the first in eternity. Three heroes stand ready to assist you in the bringing of World-Eater's downfall. Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, Hakon One-Eye, and Felldir the Wise."  
Arlen nodded and approached three warriors with weapons drawn. They looked to him for some sort of speech or call to arms. Instead, Arlen stared at them for an uncomfortable amount of time, then said, "Well? Alduin's not going to kill himself!" and strolled from the Hall of Valor without looking back. Luckily, as Arlen positioned himself at the edge of the mist, he found the three heroes arrayed next to him.

"Clear Ski-" Gormlaith started to shout.

Arlen interrupted her with another arrogant and sarcastic comment. "Let's get rid of the mist, shall we? LOK VAH KOOR!"

The other heroes followed his example and managed to clear away a large portion of Alduin's mist. Suddenly, though, Alduin's voice echoed through Sovngarde. VEN MUL RIIK! The mist reappeared. The four heroes drew breath again.

"LOK VAH KOOR!" This time, four Voices combined, they cleared away a larger portion of the mist.

VEN MUL RIIK!

Hakon slumped. "Does his strength have no end? Are our struggles in vain?"

"Hold fast!" Arlen said, once again stealing Gormlaith's thunder. "I feel his strength ebbing! Even as this eternal mist appears, it is thinning. Once more and he will be forced to face us in the clear!"

Once again, "LOK VAH KOOR!"

This time, Alduin's strength failed. As they cleared away their piece of the mist, the great dragon failed to maintain it. Sovngarde suddenly cleared of all fog, mist, or murk of any kind, and Alduin's roar sounded in the distance. After only a moment, his black shape appeared. Gormlaith immediately drew breath.

"JOOR ZAH FRUL!" Alduin spiraled toward the ground, and Arlen stretched his sword upward to intercept him. The blade scraped across Alduin's chest scales as he fell. Before Alduin could even regain his feet, the four heroes were upon him. He was barraged from all sides, and Arlen ripped Windshear from where it had stuck during the battle on the Throat of the World. It left a sizable gap in Alduin's scales. The heroes tried for the gap, and Arlen landed it. Alduin reared, but not before catching Gormlaith's hair with his teeth. She was hurled toward the Whalebone Bridge, and Arlen sprinted after her. Just before she managed to slip off, he caught her wrist and hooked his foot under one of the ribs. Gormlaith swung, and landed back up on the bridge. Arlen saw Alduin was weak, so he drew his bow and fired. Alduin's eye was pierced, so he reared again, bucked, and exploded.

/\

After Alduin was killed, Sovngarde was a blur. Tsun taught Arlen a new Shout, to call a hero from the Hall of Valor, and tossed him back to Nirn. Once there, Arlen was witness to some kind of dragon ceremony on the Throat of the World, vaguely aware of someone next to him, and went to Paarthurnax.

"The Blades want me to kill you."

Paarthurnax didn't seem surprised. "And I would in their place. I have only overcome my inborn cruelty through study of the Voice and meditation. I would ask the Blades, and you, what is better? To be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"

Arlen thought about this for nearly half an hour, kneeling in the snow in front of Paarthurnax.

Finally, he decided. "It is better, always better, to overcome that which you do not approve of."

"So you see. The Blades-"

"The Blades are the ones who should die." Arlen said. They would kill and ancient and great one such as Paarthurnax, simply because he was a dragon? They never overcame any evil nature. They let it sit and stir in themselves until they were driven only to kill dragons. Not all dragons were bad.

"I do not agree, though you are the one who will decide whether to kill them."

"That is why I have decided. You do not deserve to die. If they think so, they are in the wrong."

/Delphine\

Arlen swarmed into Sky Haven Temple swords flashing. One was more curved than the other, and emitted the sound of breeze. It knocked Esbern aside as though he were paper. Now that he was dead, he might as well be. Delphine drew her sword, but didn't have time to raise it before she found an obsidian one in her chest.

/Adrianne Avenicci\

Adrianne charged forward, raising her hammer. The pale man dodged it, and it was revealed that he was a vampire. He raised his sword, swinging back at Adrianne, but was run through from the back. The one wielding the sword was no other than the black-eyed man from so many weeks ago. Behind him was an orc.

/Arlen\

Arlen turned to face the orc.

"The Dawnguard could use someone like you. Come to our fort near Riften."

"I may do just that."

Adrianne Avenicci cut in. "You saved my life. Thank you."

A courier appeared. "There's a museum opening up in Dawnstar."

Guards approached, giving praise. The orc continued. Adrianne tried to sell something to Arlen. More guards showed up. Arlen tried to take it all in, then tried to ignore it. He tried to listen to some, but it was too much. His frustration grew. Finally, he screamed and drew his sword. The guards did the same, but all of them fell beneath his blade. Arlen had lost his savior badge and regained his killer one.

/\

Arlen set the pieces on the altar. He had just recovered them: the shards of Mehrunes' Razor. The man who ran the museum had been killed the moment Arlen didn't need him anymore. Now, he stood alone at Mehrunes Dagon's altar. There were no words. Dagon sent Arlen a feeling of satisfaction through some sort of mental bond. The Razor repaired itself, and two Dremora appeared. These were minor Daedra, demons. Arlen threw his sword at one like a knife, and it was killed. He then drew Mehrunes' Razor and stepped forward casually. The second Dremora charged eagerly, but Arlen spun, weaved, and stabbed the demon in the base of the skull. It fell, and Arlen sheathed the Razor.  
Time to join the Thieves' Guild.

/\/\  
The next part of Arlen's journey will be continued in my next story: _Skyrim's Most Wanted_. It explores Arlen's journey through the Thieves' Guild and Dawnguard quest lines and therefore his becoming Skyrim's most wanted thief, assassin, and mercenary, as well as Skyrim's most dangerous vampire.


End file.
